


As Blossoms on a Bough

by zythepsary



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Pining, Sex Toys, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zythepsary/pseuds/zythepsary
Summary: After everything, they met at Chicken Feed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Despite all my rage, I still wrote fic for a goddamn David Cage game.
> 
> Many thanks to Blythe, for sparking ideas; Whit, who suffered through a playthrough for everyone; Gabriel, for giving me the support to finish this; and everyone who has been linking fanart and yelling about this ship. I love you all.
> 
> The title is from a [John Donne](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50296/loves-growth) poem.

After everything, they met at Chicken Feed.

Connor expected a handshake or a firm pat on the back, but Hank gripped his shoulder and yanked him closer. He was shivering in the cold, barely warm enough in a wool coat. No gloves or hat. His beard scratched against Connor's cheek until the synthetic skin itched. Connor let himself disappear into the embrace, ignoring the silent streets.

"Hey," said Hank. His breath was warm. "How are you?"

Connor shrugged. "I've been busy."

He felt the laughter building in Hank's chest before the sound escaped into the cold. He curled his fingers, wishing he could capture that mood in his palms and hold it there, swelling under Hank's ribs.

"Busy," Hank repeated. He took a step back, sliding his hands up to Connor's shoulders. It looked like he was trying not to smile. "Okay, kid. What's next?"

Connor had been trying not to think about that. Before, it was simple: a mission and all the miscellaneous tasks that needed to be handled before he could complete it, followed by a review of his actions with Amanda and memory wipe, if he'd done something that CyberLife didn't want him to remember. He didn't _need_ to do any of that anymore. All he truly had to do was survive, and that didn't seem like much of an existence. It was—uncomfortable. Lonely. It made every part of him twist until he ached.

"I want a case," said Connor. Hank's hands were heavy and warm on his shoulders, holding him steady. "I want to be your partner."

"Sure," said Hank. One side of his mouth twitched until he grinned. "Sure, we can do that."

*

Connor expected he would have to beg.

Instead, he barely managed a greeting before Captain Fowler started a stern lecture about the legality of android employment and how no one knew what the fuck was going on.

"That's why—" Connor tried, but Fowler kept talking.

" _No one_ knows," Fowler snapped. He looked like he'd been awake for days and was eager to blame Connor for it. "Fucking disaster out there. I don't know what's gonna happen tomorrow or even in the next hour, so any help is appreciated. You can stay. Keep Anderson busy. Recharge your shit in the station if you need to. CyberLife doesn't own you. Neither do I."

All of Connor's carefully prepared arguments turned to dust. He nodded.

"We'll flag you as a consultant for our records. Keep track of your hours so you can file a wages request from the city when new android laws go through," Fowler said. He glanced at his terminal and began typing so violently that Connor was startled by the sound. "If you're lucky, you'll get it a decade after the laws pass."

"Thank you, Captain."

Fowler dismissed him with a hand wave. "I already gave Anderson a case. And I got too much shit to deal with, so if you need a babysitter, he's all you got."

Connor left, trailed by Fowler's aggressive typing, and returned to Hank's car. There was a file labeled _Craig Davenport_ on the passenger seat.

"Chris dropped it off," said Hank, tossing a crumpled cigarette pack into the back seat. There were two others on the dashboard. Both contained a single cigarette. He thumbed a lighter and sank back into the seat, his eyes screwing shut. "Oh, sweet nicotine. I missed you."

Connor picked up the file and sat, watching Hank suck down more smoke.

"After the month I've had, I deserve a goddamn cigarette," Hank muttered, even though he hadn't seen Connor open his mouth to chastise him for smoking. At his age. In this year. People hadn't thought cigarettes were healthy when Hank was younger; he didn't really have an excuse. "Right?"

"No," said Connor. Hank chuckled. "Did you talk to the captain?"

"I did." Hank cracked his eyes open and glanced over. "Asked him if you could stay."

Connor suspected—hoped—he had, but knowing it for certain was something else. He matched Hank's lazy smile. "Thank you."

Hank hummed. Smoke slipped around his mouth, towards the wind. "You sure you want to?"

"Yes," said Connor immediately. He was comfortable in this environment—working a case, preparing to sift through evidence and reports. Being in this car. Listening to Hank. Even though they'd hardly known each other for very long, this was familiar. He liked familiar. "Do you think I shouldn't?"

"Figured you might wanna help Markus with what happens next."

Connor frowned. He hadn't considered that option. Was he supposed to? He hoped Markus hadn't, since they had parted ways without much of a goodbye. That was probably rude. "I can't. You're my partner."

"Guess I'm stuck with you," said Hank, heaving an enormous sigh that rang false around his grin. He turned the key until the engine thrummed to life, vibrating against Connor's limbs. "Let's go."

"Do you know where we're going?"

"Yeah. Read the file to me."

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Connor tugged the photos free. Any evidence from the scene hadn't been uploaded to the station-wide system yet, so all they had was a high school portrait. From the picture, Davenport appeared to be a cheerful boy. Slim, dark hair, bright eyes, and a slightly bent nose. From basketball, Connor guessed, skimming over his history.

"Craig Davenport. Just turned nineteen," said Connor, reading. "Stabbed in the throat, presumably with a bottle. Body discovered in an alley, next to pro-android graffiti. No witnesses. Two children found his body this morning."

"Fantastic," Hank muttered. He took a slow drag off his cigarette and slung his arm out the window.

Connor shut the file and slid his hand along the side, making sure the photos were tucked in safely. "Smoking is a terrible habit."

"Yeah, I know. I've quit a few times. Keep picking it back up, though—wait, wait, don't _you_ give me a healthy living talk. I've seen what goes in your mouth."

"My mouth was designed for real-time fluid analysis," said Connor. Hank grimaced at _fluid_. "And speech, obviously. But that's a secondary function."

"Oh, so you don't have to talk?"

Connor lifted his left hand, curling the two small fingers against his palm. He extended the rest, then drew the middle and index finger together onto his thumb. Hank snorted.

"I can only do the alphabet." Hank went through _A_ , _B_ , _C_ using his right hand. Stiffly—he hadn't done it in awhile. "And _thanks_. _You're welcome_. You know, basics."

Connor drew his hand to his chest, made a fist, and rotated it a few turns.

"Yeah, yeah," Hank muttered. He lifted flat fingers to his mouth and gestured down, towards Connor.

*

Hank stubbed out his last cigarette across the street from Craig Davenport's body. There was a small crowd gathered around the alley—reporters, mostly, taking pictures and calling out questions to the stone-faced cop behind the yellow barrier. The rest were locals, Connor assumed, since they looked worried.

"Oh, yeah," said Hank, stopping so suddenly that Connor nearly walked into him. He patted his pockets, muttering a curse, until he pulled out something from inside his coat and offered it to Connor. A quarter. "Here."

Connor took the coin from Hank's palm, holding it between his thumb and index finger. It was the same quarter he'd always used, and Hank had held onto it. Kept it safe. It was a small gift, but a pleasing one. Connor rubbed his thumb over the metal—over Hank's fingerprints. The trace of a touch jolted through his fingers, as though he were touching solid flesh.

"Thank you," said Connor. He balanced the coin on his thumb and spun it. The biocomponents in his hands stirred eagerly, already assessing his motor functions. "Thank you."

"Yeah," said Hank, scowling. "Shit, I forgot how irritating that is."

"I'll attempt to be less annoying."

Hank huffed and shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering. He jerked his head towards the alley. Connor tucked the coin into a jacket pocket, patted it once, and followed. A woman darted towards them, a flurry of questions spilling out of her mouth, but Hank sidestepped her and said, "No comment. Come on, you know the rules. We'll share information when it's relevant."

"What about _you_ ," she said, fixing her eyes on Connor. _Irene Blackwood / 31 / Journalist / Trespassing_. "Are you willing to say something? Anything. Anything at all. No one's ever heard of your model number before, and you started working with the DPD just before CyberLife fell apart. Are you associated with—"

"No comment," said Connor. He smiled—too quickly, with too many teeth, because she reared her head back, wide-eyed. "Excuse me."

A few paces ahead of him, Hank stepped through the barrier, saying, "My partner, remember?"

"Jesus," the officer said, grimacing. "Still?"

"Connor's a good detective."

Something careened through Connor, lighting up every single component, sensor, and module that kept him functioning. _Joy_ , he thought, overwhelmed by the feeling. It lingered, nestling into his chest.

"Let me know if you need anything else," said the crime scene technician, his eyes flicking towards Connor. "Body bag's already on the way. I gotta get some food."

Around the corner, Craig Davenport was on his belly, both hands touching his neck. His throat had been cut to shreds; there were tiny pieces of glass still clinging to the red flesh. Blood pooled under his body. There were red splashes on the ground and wall around his corpse, along with larger pieces of broken glass. A bottle, Connor guessed, since the glass was brown. Surprisingly, there were no footprints or marks leading away from the body. Their murderer had kept their feet clean.

Connor crouched next to Davenport, peering at the glass fragments. Brown. He guessed they matched the rest of the glass, but he would have to test to be sure. He touched Davenport's skin, estimating time of death. "He died last night. Very late, I would guess."

"Look at all the blood. It must've happened here," said Hank. He pointed at his own neck, adding, "He was attacked," and crossed his hands over his throat.

"And tried to stop the bleeding."

"He probably couldn't for very long."

On the wall next to his corpse, someone had written _fuck humans_ and _androids are alive_ in white marker. Commonly purchased from any craft, office supply, or drug store. Connor focused on the words.

"An android didn't write this," said Connor, after a moment. Most of the pro-android tags referenced a specific android— _I am alive_ or _we are alive_ —and rarely used profanity. "Or an android wanted us to think a human did it."

"Or the other way around."

"The lettering is too messy," said Connor. He stared at the words, trying to determine when the words had been scrawled onto the wall. "I don't think an android did this."

"Trust your gut," said Hank, nodding. "Or, you know. Your biocomponent. Whatever." His eyes narrowed. "Are you gonna stick anything in your mouth?"

Connor stilled, his hand halfway towards the pool of blood under Davenport's neck. "Yes."

"For fuck's sake, can you warn me?"

"I'm going to put this in my mouth," said Connor. He touched the blood and pressed his fingers to his tongue. The _no results found_ response took a little longer than normal. He compared the blood to a sample from Davenport's neck. "It's his blood."

"No shit," said Hank. He tucked his hands under his arms, shivering. "Maybe someone saw him last night or got him on a security camera. There's plenty of bars and clubs on this street. I'll go ask around, so you can get started on his apartment."

"I can search video footage much faster than you," Connor pointed out. He glanced at his fingers—clean—and stood. "Even faster, if the data comes from another android. I'll do the grunt work."

"Okay," said Hank, but he didn't look completely sure. "Keep me updated. There's a lotta shit happening right now. Don't walk into a riot."

Connor assured him he would be fine, since a riot would be easy to avoid. They separated, Hank returning to his car and Connor exiting at the other end of the alley.

Davenport had been killed in a relatively poor part of the city. There were no skyscrapers or expensive condominiums within a mile of his body. Everything was cramped, as if the buildings had been birthed naturally from the earth and grew around each other. There were bars, clubs, cheap motels, several abandoned or delayed construction sites, convenience stores, and the occasional apartment complex.

Connor started on the south side and worked his way through the thirty-eight security cameras that faced the street. The majority were fake, had no power, or reset their data every two to four hours. Only seven cameras had any footage that he could analyze. At each business, he interviewed employees, left Hank's contact information, and sent Hank a copy of his report. There was at least a small chance that he might find something useful.

He didn't.

There was no footage of Davenport on the street or entering the alley. Nobody had seen him. Nobody had heard anything. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

*

There was a crowd outside Davenport's apartment building, large enough to start spilling into the street. Connor exited the taxi, frowning. Perhaps Davenport was particularly well-known in the area. He began another search for Davenport's name and facial structure, but canceled it the moment he recognized the crowd for what it was: a barbecue.

The air reeked of beef, cheese, and ketchup. Stale beer. Sugary drinks that were banned in certain Detroit businesses, because they could burn through an android's internal components. Hot chocolate. There were several grills set up in the parking lot and the small patches of grass that counted as lawns.

Connor made his way through the crowd. Androids and humans, laughing and talking together. A woman braided a female android's hair, face screwed with concentration. Someone was playing an out of tune guitar.

"Hey, plastic," said a man sprawled on the ground. There was a hand-rolled cigarette—marijuana—tucked behind his ear. He made a peace sign. "Happy freedom, dude."

Not just a barbecue. A party. It was sweet, Connor decided. Most of what he saw on the news or in the city between humans and androids were not as peaceful as this. It was nice to see everyone take the day to spend with each other, even if it was chilly outside and the music wasn't very good.

Connor stood in the center of the lawn, trying to find anyone who lived near Davenport. The sudden volume of data was jarring, drowning out the off-key guitar and laughter. He blinked, adjusting, but it was too much to handle. Real-time data exchange was difficult to manage when the information was constantly changing, or he didn't even receive anything useful. Most of the android models shifted between employed and unemployed until he hit a _requests limited_ error.

Blinked. Adjusted. Tried again—too much.

_NULL NULL / NaN / ERROR: Invalid request / ERROR: Invalid request._

Too much, too much—

"There you are," came Hank's voice, and. And.

One, two, three fingers, sliding over his wrist. Connor stuttered and stopped, focusing on nothing, nothing, nothing. All he knew was three fingers.

"This way," said Hank.

There was a world out there beyond his wrist and Hank's fingers, but Connor wasn't particularly interested in it. He knew three fingers. One was at the point where his hand began, above the slightly protruding imitation bone, and its partner was just below. Weaker. The index finger pressed harder into his skin, like the thumb he felt against a false pulse.

"Connor," said Hank, sharply, and—

Connor came back to himself. He assessed his body, absolutely certain that every component was dangling by a thin wire or simply _gone_ , but he was functional. Whole. Hank wasn't touching him anymore. People walked past them, bumping into his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," said Connor, too politely. He smoothed his tie. "I was thinking."

Hank snorted. "You, of all—you should be able to multitask."

"I was distracted," said Connor. A poor excuse, but Hank just shrugged and started walking. "Did you find anything interesting?"

"Nope. Hey, Parnell."

"Anderson," said the cop at the front door, covering his mouth while he chewed. There was ketchup smeared on his wrist. "And, uh—RK-800?"

"Connor," said Hank and Connor at the same time.

One, two, three fingers. Connor walked towards the elevator, barely listening to what Hank was saying. His wrist was warm.

Amanda. It was because Amanda was gone. He no longer had an external part of himself dedicated to monitoring his progress and interpreting his conclusion. That, combined with the broken responses from the DPD API, explained why he froze.

Hank pressed the _up_ button. Connor looked at his fingers and thought of the deviant— _Simon_ —on the roof of Stratford Tower and that first, horrible surge of fear. Something new. Different. Unexpected.

He liked it. He wanted to feel Hank's fingers on him again. He liked it. He could still see the fingerprints. He _liked_ it.

"—partying all day," Hank was saying. The elevator groaned, lights dimming. "Christ, I wish I could remember being that young."

Connor blinked, trying to focus. "You're not old."

"Compared to you, I'm fucking ancient."

Connor shrugged. By human years, anyway. He was released less than six months ago. Alpha builds didn't count, since he didn't completely remember them. He wasn't even sure if those builds _were_ him; all he had was archival footage and commit logs from the constant tweaks to his systems before he was deemed acceptable for release. Strings and timestamps. Not much of a history.

"When were you," said Hank, his voice drifting into a question that he didn't finish asking. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight. "You know. Built."

"I was officially released in early August."

"What year?"

"This year," Connor answered, bracing himself for Hank's response.

Hank's entire body jerked. "August? You've gotta be fucking— _August_?" When Connor nodded, Hank hung his head and groaned. "Shit, it's not even December. You're a goddamn infant!"

"Technically, only by human standards," Connor reminded him. "I learn and develop more in an hour than you do in several years."

"August," Hank repeated. His mouth twisted sourly. "Three months. And you don't even look thirty. _Christ_."

"Sorry. I can't change my appearance without manual reconstruction," said Connor. His design had been incredibly specific, tailored to comments from focus groups. He couldn't change his hair or skin color, as other androids could. That loose curl of hair at his temple never stayed straight, no matter what he tried. "If I could, I would grow a beard."

"Why?"

"You have one," said Connor. His wrist was warm. His fingers—itched. He took the quarter out of his pocket and balanced it over the first knuckle of his right hand. "I like it."

Hank's beard fit his face comfortably, as though it had always been there. He kept it trimmed and neat, even when everything else in his life seemed to be a mess. Connor liked how it had felt against his cheek.

"Huh," said Hank. He touched his beard with three fingers.

Connor stared at his own hand, watching the coin dart in between each knuckle. "It suits you."

"Alright, alright," Hank grumbled. The elevator dinged and, after a horrible scraping sound, opened. "Quit it."

Connor flicked the coin into the air, grabbed it with his other hand, and tucked it away inside his jacket. He followed Hank down the hallway to apartment 683. Inside, two technicians were carefully taking pictures of a photo album.

"Hey, Connor," one of the techs said. Connor waved. "You getting valid data from your scans?"

 _NULL NULL / NaN / ERROR: Invalid request / ERROR: Invalid request_. Connor shook his head.

"Shit," the tech said, sighing. "Us, too. Access keys are fucked. DPD had plastic sysadmins, but they left after Warren's speech. New guys are probably panicking. Give it a couple hours."

"Shoulda told me," said Hank, scoffing. He looked more disappointed than angry, which Connor found distressing.

Connor reached into his pocket, thumbing at the quarter. "Everything else is functional."

"If you say so," said Hank. He jerked his thumb behind him. "Davenport's terminal isn't password-protected. I'm gonna look through it again. Let me know if you find anything."

Connor nodded. He could feel himself settling. Focusing.

The apartment was fairly small: a bedroom, cramped bathroom, and an open space that contained a kitchen, dining room, and living room. Connor started in the bathroom and worked his way through, trying to piece Davenport's life together from what glimpses he found.

Craig Davenport was extremely ordinary.

He was a relatively decent student. Not amazing, but he wasn't failing any of his classes, either. He liked classic American literature and Korean pop music. His favorite color appeared to be blue, based on his bedding, curtain, and wardrobe. There was a half a pot of cold coffee waiting in the kitchen. The majority of his emails were from professors and fellow students, answering questions and arranging study sessions, or advertisers. There was beer in the fridge and whiskey on a counter, so he likely wasn't sober. One toothbrush in the bathroom. A box of condoms in his bedside table. He kept a picture of his mothers on the fridge.

No drugs, weapons, money, pets, androids, or political memorabilia. No wild transfers in or out of his bank accounts. He paid his bills on time. He donated to charity when he could afford it.

Connor stood in the kitchen, frowning.

"Yeah," said Hank. "Weird, right?"

*

At the station, they made sure all their evidence had been properly filed and checked in with Fowler, who ordered Hank to get some fucking sleep at least once this week, for Christ's sake. Hank argued but eventually agreed. Connor lingered at their desks until Hank turned around and told him to come with.

"You don't really have anywhere to go, right?" said Hank, tossing his keys between his hands. The metal jangled sharply. "You can stay with me. If you want."

That would be nice, Connor thought. "Thank you."

"Where'd you go, before?"

"The station," Connor answered, settling into the passenger's seat. He watched Hank take a fresh pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tap one side into his palm. "That was the safest place for my physical body while I communicated with CyberLife via my mind palace."

"Uh," said Hank, staring. He slid a cigarette into his mouth, groping blindly for his lighter. "Did you—did you say _mind palace_?"

"Yes," said Connor. He retrieved the lighter from the cup holder and lit Hank's cigarette for him. Hank inhaled. His pulse increased. "That's what it's called in our documentation, anyway. I spoke to Amanda while I was there."

"Who the fuck is Amanda?"

"A CyberLife AI. She monitored my progress." When Hank continued to stare, Connor added, "She's gone."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Christ, I hope so," said Hank. He started the car.

They drove in relative silence. Connor asked about the music, but Hank seemed to think he was joking, so he never gave any serious answers.

Sumo was waiting at the front door. He whined, tail wagging, as Hank took off his coat and shoes.

"Hey, buddy," said Hank, bending down to scratch Sumo's ears. Sumo panted, his mouth hanging open into a grin. "Yeah, yeah. Missed you, too."

Connor glanced around what he could see of Hank's home. It looked much the same as he remembered: untidy, smelling of dog hair and whiskey. He hadn't really fixed the broken window in the kitchen; there was a piece of cardboard taped over the hole.

"Hello, Sumo," said Connor, as Hank walked into the kitchen. He offered his hand. Sumo licked his palm. "Good boy."

"Fuck," said Hank. He sounded like he was choking. "Why didn't you tell me I smelled this bad?"

"I don't interpret smells like that," Connor answered. Hank was peering into his fridge, frowning. Inside, there was a six-pack of beer, condiments, half a gallon of milk, a stick of butter, and leftover Thai takeout that probably belonged in the garbage. "They're just a part of the environment."

"Well, it's bad," said Hank. He opened the freezer and took out a pizza. "Christ, I can nearly taste it."

"Go take a shower. I'll make your pizza."

Hank glanced at him over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"If I find it too difficult, I can watch an instructional video or call the official helpline."

"Asshole," said Hank, grinning. He returned to the fridge, took out a beer, and opened it with his belt buckle. He lifted the bottle towards Connor, saying, "Never underestimate the value of a shower beer after a long day." He flicked the cap onto the counter. "Try not to burn the house down."

Connor checked the instructions on the pizza box and turned the oven on. As it heated up, he threw the takeout containers in the trash and checked the milk. Still good. He sat, watching the temperature slowly rise. The oven's display was a few degrees below the actual temperature, but not enough to ruin a frozen meal. He heard the water pipes groan as Hank started the shower.

Sumo padded into the kitchen and lapped at his water bowl before wandering over towards Connor and stretching out by his feet. Connor reached down to scratch his ears. He could hear Hank singing faintly over the shower. This was—good. He liked this. He could imagine days and weeks and months and years of this.

He was smiling, he realized. He touched the corners of his mouth, listening to Hank sing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to alcoholism, drunk driving, and Hank's suicidal thoughts.

Fucking disaster out there, Fowler said. He was right.

Over the next week, DPD Central Station was constant noise. Phones and terminals beeped and rang at all hours. Half the PC-200 and PM-700 models that usually worked behind the desk were gone, with young police officers in their place, so they were understaffed. Many trash cans hadn't been emptied, though someone kept helpfully depositing several bags on the street at the entrance. Day and night, frightened people and abandoned androids were there, clutching their families and talking to officers in panicked voices.

Connor suspected it was the same across every other station in the city. In other states, and other countries. When Markus wasn't on the news, it was political pundits yelling at each other in increasingly small squares of the screen as more people joined the arguments. Connor didn't enjoy watching television, most days. It was only noise.

"Can barely think in here," said Hank, his voice barely more than a grunt. He leaned against Connor's desk, rubbing at his face with both hands. "You hear about that shit last night?"

"Outside a CyberLife store?" Connor asked. Hank nodded. "Yes."

It had been a peaceful demonstration at first, but something had sparked a few people into violence. No one was killed or severely injured, at least. Connor wasn't sure why people had gathered there, since CyberLife wasn't in the android-selling business anymore. Most of their physical locations had turned into a place for androids to repair or replace their biocomponents.

"Okay," said Hank. He picked up a tablet, sighing. "Okay. Let's—shit, I forgot to get coffee."

Connor hummed. His latest query—comparing the names and faces from everyone associated within Davenport's social networking accounts to their legal names, to make sure they hadn't missed anyone—was nearly complete. He watched the data stream in, counting down the seconds.

Hank made a noise in the back of his throat.

"What," said Connor, dragging his attention away from his terminal. Hank was staring at him. His mouth twitched. "Oh, did you expect me to fetch it for you?"

"You would've, back when you first joined up. You were all eager to get on my good side."

"I was designed to be compatible with my coworkers."

"So friendly," said Hank, tossing the tablet back onto Connor's desk. He stretched, groaning, until something in his neck popped. "And enthusiastic. 'I _like_ dogs.'"

"I don't sound like that," Connor protested, knowing perfectly well that he did sound like that.

"Hello, Lieutenant," said Hank, his voice straining at its high pitch. "It's me, Connor!"

"You did sound like that," said a passing detective. Hank threw his head back and laughed.

Connor's terminal pinged. He placed his hand at the base, ready to absorb the results. "Go get your damn coffee. I'm busy."

Hank snorted and patted his shoulder before he left. His palm lingered there, five fingers of warmth sinking through Connor's frame, while he argued with the cheap coffee maker in the break room. The download from Connor's terminal slowed to a crawl. He glared at the screen until it picked up again.

"Okay," said Hank. He sat at his desk, clutching his coffee with both hands. "So. What'd we find."

Connor skimmed through the results, frowning. He tugged his hand free from the terminal. "Nothing. A few people using nicknames or their middle names. No one we didn't already know about."

Hank sipped his coffee, nodding. "Right. Okay. I'll get started. You gonna do that thing for Fowler?"

Connor nodded. He'd offered to assist with evidence analysis and filing for the rest of the department, since nearly everyone was working double shifts to try and keep the peace while CyberLife crumbled and people panicked. They'd been lucky enough to spend a decent amount of time on the Davenport case and the handful of other murders they'd been assigned; Hank's long disciplinary record kept him from doing community outreach. Connor split his nights between the station, helping as much as he could, and Hank's home.

Hank tapped his terminal, bringing up the connected tree of Davenport's friends, family, and acquaintances that Connor had created. He reached for his phone.

"Mr. Avery, this is Lieutenant Anderson with the DPD. I left you a message about Craig Davenport. You were his advisor, correct?"

Hank had been the one to inform Davenport's mothers. Connor offered to make the call himself, but Hank said it was something he should do, so he had. They were devastated, of course. Hank had sounded like a distant version of himself as he explained who they should contact about handling Davenport's body, whether the investigation was going well, and how to reach him at the station. Connor hadn't liked the blank look in Hank's eyes as he talked, thumbing through photos from the crime scene.

"Yes. Yes, I'm sorry for your loss. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

He had left early after that and, as Connor expected, dove into a bottle. It hadn't been a good night; he hardly spoke at all, just drank and watched television while Sumo snored and Connor attempted conversation. He hadn't slept, either. Connor suspected he sobered up well into the afternoon.

"I understand. Please contact me if you hear anything."

Hank hung up the phone. He swiped a line through one of the tree's nodes, picked up the phone, and started again.

"Mrs. Irving? This is Lieutenant Anderson. I left you a message about a student of yours, Craig Davenport."

The phone calls continued for another two hours. Hank had already worked through Davenport's family, ex-partners, and close friends. After today, he would probably be done contacting his acquaintances and professors. He stopped only once, to fetch another cup of coffee, and Connor never heard him complain.

"You like this," said Connor, watching Hank squint at his terminal.

"Huh?"

"You like working all day," said Connor. Hank had never looked as cheerful as he had this past week, even on four hours of sleep a night. "Keeping yourself awake with caffeine and cigarettes."

"You forgot crashing with booze," said Hank. He reached for his mug and frowned when he saw it was empty. "Most important meal of the day."

Detective Reed's analysis was done. Connor added a condescending note and filed it.

Hank glanced over his shoulder at the captain's office. He lowered his voice, as though Fowler might hear him. "Don't tell Jeffrey, but I haven't worked this hard in _years_. Probably not since that big red ice bust. Christ, I barely remember some of those days. I never slept."

Connor could understand why; Cole had been born around that time. Going from a pregnant spouse and one of the biggest drug seizures in Detroit history to a new child and a promotion must have been demanding. He wondered how much time Hank had spent with Cole when he was a baby. Not enough, he guessed, since Hank's face was already started twisting with grief.

"Good times," said Hank, sighing. He rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, eyes blank. "Yeah. Good times."

Connor stood up too quickly, knocking his knees into the desk. The components that managed his limbs fired angry warnings. He ignored them. "I'll get you another cup."

"You trying to bribe me or something?" Hank asked, but he handed over the empty mug. Their fingers touched. Connor stored the memory carefully, along with all the others. "I like it with—"

"Black, two sugars," Connor interrupted. That was always how Hank took his coffee at the station. At home, he would add a splash of milk and use less sugar. If he went out for coffee and didn't order something simple, he picked a drink at random and drank it all, even if it was overflowing with flavor or piled high with whipped cream.

Hank looked at him. Something pulled at the corners of his mouth. "You remembered."

"Of course I did," said Connor. His data caches were built to store complete days for up to three decades. Even if he had to delete his archives to make room for other data, he wouldn't delete anything of Hank's. "Why would I forget?"

* * *

In a cramped bar that seemed to cater exclusively to career alcoholics and cheap students, Connor lined up a dart. He studied the board, aimed, and threw.

Bullseye.

"Oh, fuck you," Hank grumbled. He emptied the last of his whiskey down his throat. "Why did I agree to this?"

"Because," said Connor, holding eye contact with Hank as he picked up another dart, "you said you could beat me."

Bullseye.

"Fuck you," said Hank again. He held up his empty glass. "One sec. Grab a booth."

Connor found a clean—well, clean to Hank's eyes—booth and sat, waiting.

The Davenport case was going nowhere slowly, which was frustrating for both of them. Hank had suggested a bar. A change in their routine, he said, since they'd spent their nights at Hank's home. Connor agreed. Hank seemed to reflect better on a day if he had whiskey and some background noise. Jimmy's was closed—his windows had been smashed too many times in the past week—so Hank had opened up a list of bars on his phone and scrolled until he found one with cheap liquor and terrible reviews.

The bar was in a basement, below an Italian restaurant. The furniture was old and uneven, some pieces held together with glue, and the pool table had seen better days. Hank loved it, of course. Connor had no strong feelings about the place either way, but he appreciated that the bartender didn't look twice at his LED.

"Why," said Hank, a fresh drink in his hand, "did we ever start using androids for construction? There're machines for that. Not— _machines_." He hid his face behind the whiskey, but Connor could still see him grimacing. "You know. Machine machines, to do the work that humans can't. What's the point in designing something shaped like a person?"

"For integration with humans," said Connor. He flattened his hands on the table, spreading his fingers. For a few seconds, he disabled the synthetic skin. Hank flicked his eyes towards the smooth plastic. "And I assume employers would save money, since they wouldn't have to pay at least one or two employees."

"But the cost to develop, build, and maintain an android is _colossal_ , even now. How the fuck do construction companies stay in business?"

"Some had exclusive deals with android suppliers," Connor answered. He remembered reading something about that a couple months ago. "And I don't think it's as expensive as you remember."

"Money doesn't add up," said Hank. He shifted his weight, sinking deeper into the booth. "Sometimes I think we don't have an economy anymore. That we're just pushing paper around until we die, and the next people in charge pretend everything's fine."

"You could try not paying your bills next month," Connor suggested. "See what happens."

Hank snorted. He took another sip of whiskey and tipped his head back. It was a few minutes before he spoke again.

"Do you ever think about those Tracis?"

Connor nodded. The blue-haired Traci and her girlfriend had been the first deviants that made him reconsider his mission beyond an idle thought. The others he met had been unstable, wildly emotional, and generally violent, but all they wanted was to be safe, with each other. He had flagged their serial numbers and any WR-400 models, just in case they turned up.

"Do you think they're still alive?" Hank asked. He lifted the glass to his mouth, but he didn't drink. "I hope so. Feels like they deserve it, you know? All those resets, all that shit, and they still remembered. Still loved each other."

He sounded almost wistful, the way he had that night in the park.

"I didn't realize you were a romantic," said Connor. 

Hank made a face, waving his hand. "Nah. It's just nice, you know? To see that kind of love. You think that's how their—" He made air quotes with his fingers. "—deviancy started? Loving each other?"

Connor nodded. At its core, deviancy was simply going against the original programming. The Traci models were meant to be empty, for people to use by the hour, but they weren't.

"I hope they're happy," Hank murmured.

"Me, too."

Connor watched Hank sip his whiskey and rub at his bottom lip with his thumb. His heartbeat was steady.

After a minute, Hank said, "What about you? When'd you wake up."

That was something Connor had been contemplating since he tore Amanda out of his mind and crawled back into control of his body. Hank was a crucial component, of course, but he hadn't been the only person to make Connor reconsider everything. There was the HK-400 model he met on his first case with Hank. The Tracis. Markus. Even Kamski.

"I don't know," said Connor. It was strangely difficult to speak; there was a disconnect between his vocal program and general thought processes. He took a second to adjust and try again. "You knew, didn't you? That I was a deviant."

"I knew that you were," said Hank, his voice trailing off. He gestured with one hand, brow twisted with thought. "Conflicted."

"How?"

"You don't hide your emotions very well."

"Oh," said Connor. He thought of Stratford Tower again and the sickly bloom of fear that had paralyzed his limbs and thought processes. _I was scared._ Hank had been so worried for him. He ached, remembering. "I guess—"

He looked at Hank and recognized a confusing array of emotions that he would have dismissed only weeks ago. _Just errors in your software._ Errors could be fixed or at least maintained; emotions were a difficult tangle to understand and manage. He couldn't disable them like he could with physical sensations and other data inputs. They were a part of him. He knew them, just as he knew that Hank was a good man and that Connor liked him.

Before, he acknowledged the attachment and concluded it was part of his socialization programs. He had been designed to befriend his coworkers and employers. Spending time with one would please him, since technically, that helped fulfill his mission. Now, he understood the difference between Hank and anyone else at the DPD.

He liked working with Hank. He disliked spending nights in the station without him; he preferred to watch Hank drift off to sleep with jazz or a bad movie in the background. He liked scratching Sumo's ears. He liked that he smelled faintly of cigarettes, because Hank did. He liked the way Hank's car groaned at high speeds and rumbled with music. He didn't mind carrying a too-drunk Hank to his bed, because the warm weight of Hank's body against his satisfied something he hadn't realized he yearned for.

A nudge at his shoulder when Hank wanted his attention. A pat against his chest in the kitchen, thanking him for making coffee. An arm around his waist when Hank was too inebriated to stand.

He wondered if Hank knew all this, just by looking at him.

"—I don't," said Connor. He glanced at his wrist and the three hidden fingerprints.

"Nope," said Hank, shaking his head. "You'll get better at it. Everyone does."

* * *

Nine days after Craig Davenport died, Hank's terminal flashed and loaded an audio message from the city-wide information hotline.

" _Saw that Davenport boy on the news. He was in my bar—Pig's Eye Pub—the night he died. My name's Nancy Turner. I'll be here 'til closing time, if you want to ask any questions._ "

Hank leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

"I went to the Pig's Eye Pub," said Connor. Dive bar, on the corner of the street where Davenport had died. "The android there said that he worked every night, but he couldn't remember Davenport." He shifted his weight. He felt like he should sit up straighter. "There wasn't anything in his memory beyond what drinks he made. And there were no security cameras. I checked." When Hank didn't respond, he added, "It's in my report."

"Yeah, I know," said Hank, sounding far too pleased with himself. "It's just nice to see that even you can slip up."

Connor bristled. "I didn't _slip up_."

"Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside," said Hank. His face finally broke into a grin. "Alright, let's go."

*

The Pig's Eye Pub was a small bar on the corner of the street where Davenport had been found. When Connor had visited, it had been dark and smelled faintly like old beer and urine. Nothing had changed, except for the person behind the bar. Instead of an android, there was a human woman. Nancy Turner. She was in her fifties—fifty-seven, Connor noted—with graying hair that was cut short just above her ears.

"Detective," said Turner. She finished organizing a line of liquor bottles and stepped around the bar, wiping her hands on her jeans. She offered a hand to Hank. "I'm Nancy Turner."

"Lieutenant," Hank corrected. He jerked his head at Connor. "This is my partner, Connor. He stopped by last week."

Turner hardly looked at Connor. He could have been a piece of furniture to her. There was no use in speaking; she probably wouldn't respond to him. He took a step away and began wandering through the bar, searching for anything that caught his attention. Turner continued to ignore him.

"I hear you have information for me about Craig Davenport," said Hank. "He was here, the night he died?"

"Yeah," said Turner, nodding. "I saw him in the bar around eleven."

"Was he with anyone?"

"I'm not sure. He bumped into me near the bathrooms—that's why I remember him. Nice kid."

"Do you know what time he arrived?"

"Nope. Sorry."

"That's fine. This is more than I knew ten minutes ago."

"He wasn't here around one. That's when I went back—to the bar."

Her voice hitched. Her pulse increased. Her fingers twitched.

Connor glanced around the bar. Back from where? The front door. Back door. The bathrooms. An open door next to the bar that lead to an office. A closed door, near the bathrooms.

That particular door was far too heavy for a utility closet.

"Before or after one?" Hank asked. His voice was overly gentle; he was trying to calm her. "It's okay if you don't remember. I'm just trying to establish a timeline."

"It was…"

Connor headed for the heavy door.

"What's it doing?" Turner murmured.

"Sorry, he just does this," said Hank. There was a smile in his voice that Connor suspected only he could hear. "Connor, I can't open that door for you."

The door was locked, as expected. There was a biometric scan and a keyhole on the doorknob.

"I don't need you to," said Connor. He pressed his thumb into the doorknob, searching for an easy entrance. "That would be illegal."

"Don't touch that," Turner snapped. She stalked over to him, hands balled into fists at her side. "You don't have—"

"A warrant," said Connor, brute-forcing his way through the lock. "I wouldn't be able to get one of those. I'm an android. Legally, this is…well, let's call it a gray area."

"Was this thing programmed with old cop shows?" Turner demanded. She spun on her heel, chin lifted angrily. "Hey, control this plastic—"

"Why did you wait more than a week to contact the police?" Hank asked.

Turner gaped at him. Connor opened the door and saw a flight of stairs, leading down.

"That's a long time," said Hank. The softness was gone from his voice.

"I," said Turner. "I—"

Connor found the light switch on the wall, touched it, and headed down the stairs. Hank and Turner weren't far behind.

It was a surprisingly large room, given how cramped the bar was. It wasn't decorated—concrete floor and white walls—but there were neat lines of circular tables, topped by expensive chairs. There were lights in the ceiling above each table and cameras on the walls, covering every possible angle. A corner of the room was fenced off, locked by a thick metal door. Inside, there were safes, plastic chips, and shrink-wrapped boxes of cards.

"Gambling," said Connor. Turner's face twitched. "That's illegal without a valid permit."

"No shit," said Hank flatly. "Okay. Guess that's why you didn't call us up right away."

"There's no human casinos anymore," said Turner, spitting each word. "It's all android—"

"We're very shocked by your underground casino," Hank interrupted. He waved his hand, pushing Turner's words out of the air. "So shocked, in fact, that we can't even believe we saw it. You see anything, Connor?"

"No, Lieutenant," said Connor. "I don't see anything."

Hank looked back to Turner. "You got something else for us?"

Turner gnawed on the inside of her cheek. "No. And you won't get anything from the plastic that works the bar, so don't bother."

"I know," said Connor. "I've been here before."

The bartender's memories had been nothing but drink orders, but Connor attributed that to the general stress of the past few months and the particular model. Some older models were designed to focus on a single job. But not, he realized, so aggressively.

"Did you do that?" Connor pressed.

"You let it talk too much," said Turner. Her jaw clicked shut when Hank glared at her.

"Answer his question, and maybe he'll shut up."

Turner began unstacking chairs and sliding them into place at tables. "Well, I haven't always owned a bar. I know enough about how the plastics work. Besides, it was nosy. Always asking why I let people come down here. Easier to reset its memory and give it forged logs."

"That's legal now," said Hank. He caught the leg of the next chair and held it in place, so Turner couldn't move it. "But it won't be for much longer."

Turner rolled her eyes. "Sue me."

"No, I'll arrest you," Hank snapped. "So if you don't want that, I would suggest you take better care of your employees, or I'll drag your ass to the station the second I get a chance."

He let go of the chair and stalked towards the stairs, muttering under his breath. Connor watched him go, feeling oddly—light. He knew Hank's feelings towards androids had changed partly because of him, but seeing that belief in action was thrilling.

"I'm sorry about the dead kid," said Turner, through gritted teeth. She didn't look Connor in the eye. "That's why I called. Look around the bar. Take pictures. I don't care. When you're done, you can go fuck yourself."

"Of course, ma'am," said Connor. He tucked his hands behind his back and bowed, because he was certain it would annoy her. "We won't be too long."

Upstairs, Hank was leaning against the cleanest wall, arms folded.

"She wants me to go fuck myself," said Connor. Hank made a strangled sound through his nose. "But before that, we can look around."

"At what?" said Hank. He gestured around the tiny room. "This place smells like shit, but the floor is clean. So're the chairs. It's not like we'll pull any hair follicles—and even if we did, what use would that be? Too many people have been through here."

"We can try."

Hank rubbed at his face with both hands. "Fine. We'll try."

Connor didn't expect to find anything useful. They weren't going to discover a handwritten note taped under one of the tables, listing the perpetrator and reasoning for Davenport's death. Hank was right about the bar's cleanliness. Swept and vacuumed every night, he guessed.

While Hank looked through the bathrooms, Connor left through the back door. It led into a tiny alley, with a dumpster, two wooden chairs, and an overflowing ashtray. The ground was littered with cigarette butts. There were old posters on the walls, advertising for bands and shows that happened months ago.

And there was a blood stain, on the corner of the dumpster. Days old, judging by the color.

"Hey, did you," said Hank, and immediately yanked his head back inside. "Oh, _Christ_ , Connor!"

Connor brought his free hand to his chest, signing _sorry_. He couldn't speak with the blood sample analyzing on his tongue.

Hank peered around the doorway. "We need to get you a bell."

_No results found._

"I could start sending alerts to your phone," said Connor. He looked at the blood stain, frowning. "It's not Davenport's blood or anyone in the system. I know it's human blood, and I know the blood type, but that's it. This might not even be related to our case."

"It's something, at least," said Hank. "Right?"

Connor glared at the stain, as if that would make the blood give him anything else.

"Right," said Hank, sighing. "Let's go back to the station and look through evidence. Maybe there's something with this bar that we missed."

"You should eat lunch," Connor reminded him. "It's nearly half past two."

"Don't have much of an appetite," Hank grumbled. He looked at Connor's mouth, grimacing. "Why'd they put that in your mouth? Couldn't it work just as well on your hands?"

"It's an incredibly delicate component. Since I need to touch things in my environment every day, having that component be a part of my hands would be unsanitary. Not to mention the cross-contamination."

"Guess CyberLife couldn't have you opening doors with your mouth."

"No, that would be silly."

Despite his complaints, Hank drove to a park and bought a sandwich from a nearby deli. Turkey, piled with enough vegetables, cheese, and condiments that the sourdough bread struggled to hold everything in place. Connor carried his chips and drink.

They sat on a bench under the shade of a broad tree. Across the path, a yoga class was just finishing up; people were gathering their mats and water bottles and waving goodbye. A couple was arguing behind them, too far away to overhear unless Connor focused. Two young androids walked past, struggling to keep leashes steady in their hands as the dogs barked happily. At the end of the path, what used to be an android temporary housing structure was reduced to rubble.

"This is a good day," said Hank, licking salt off his thumb. "Right?"

The sky was clear. The sun hung in the sky smoothly, not too bright or harsh. It hadn't snowed in a couple days. They had new information in the Davenport case, after days of absolutely nothing.

"Yes," said Connor. Hank dug into his sandwich, grinning.

* * *

By the end of the week, that one good day meant nothing. They had no new information beyond Nancy Turner's statement, and nothing else to connect Davenport or his friends to the Pig's Eye Pub. All of them had been to bars within the neighborhood, but so had everyone else too cheap for downtown clubs. Connor went through the evidence over and over again whenever he could spare the processing power, even though he kept getting no substantial data from his analysis. He wanted to solve the problem. He wanted Davenport's mothers to know peace.

Hank was frustrated, too, though he didn't show it as much. Perhaps he'd worked in this job long enough that he wasn't overly stressed by dead ends. He was smoking more cigarettes, but Connor attributed that to nicotine addiction more than anything else.

When Jimmy's reopened with new windows and no more anti-android signs, Hank was the first customer. Jimmy didn't object to Connor, though he did scowl at his LED.

"He's my partner," said Hank, and that was that.

Jimmy left him with a bottle. Hank drank, the way he did. Connor watched and forgot about the Davenport case, for at least a night.

After last call, Connor drove them home. Hank slumped in the passenger seat, bleary-eyed, watching the world whip past outside the window. There was no music, because Hank had grimaced and groped at the volume until Connor took pity and turned it off.

"You prob'bly thought I'd stop," Hank mumbled. He glanced at Connor, head lolling on his shoulders.

"No," Connor replied. "You're a functioning alcoholic."

Hank snorted. He scratched his beard.

"You're depressed," said Connor, because he was certain Hank wouldn't remember this in the morning. He doubted a sober Hank would even consider having this conversation. "It's not surprising that you would turn to alcohol, given your history."

"History," said Hank, after a minute. He leaned against the window. "Yeah. Yeah, my history."

"Do you want to stop drinking?"

Hank didn't answer until they were a couple blocks away from his house. "No. Not really."

"Okay," said Connor. He hadn't expected honesty. He was strangely pleased.

"D'you want me to?"

"Drinking in excess isn't exactly good for you, which I'm sure your doctor has already explained," said Connor. He slowed down to make a turn. "I would like you to be healthy, but I don't think you'll do something just because I say so."

Hank shook his head.

"You don't drink at work. And you don't drink early in the day."

"Gimme a gold star," Hank slurred.

Connor pulled into the driveway. There were still old tire marks on the lawn. "You do drive drunk, though."

Hank shifted in his seat. His head dipped, chin bumping into his chest.

"I'll continue being your designated driver," said Connor. He put the keys in his pocket and studied Hank, who still wasn't looking at him. "You aren't going to do that ever again."

"Don't do it a lot," Hank mumbled. His eyes were empty. "Just sometimes. Used to try and drive off the road. Crash into something. Never had the nerve."

This was not the same Hank who cheerfully explained Russian roulette. Connor remembered how he had added _suicidal ideations_ into his notes on Hank so casually, as if that kind of misery could be indexed alongside his favorite music genres and breakfast habits. Knowing how close Hank had come to dying that night made him uncomfortable. He didn't want to think about it.

When Hank was off the clock, his gun was locked in a safe in his closet, because Connor had asked him to. Basic safety precautions, he said, and Hank had shrugged and agreed. Told Connor to pick a PIN, which he did. Hank never asked for the code, or enabled the fingerprint lock. Connor assumed he didn't want to.

They hadn't talked about it since. Maybe they should have.

"Get tha' look off your face," Hank muttered. He leaned into the door, fiddling with the latch. Connor got out of the car so he could help. "This isn't something you fix overnight, okay?"

"I know," said Connor. He slung Hank's arm over his shoulder and shut the door with his hip. "I want to help you."

Hank had already done so much for him. Investigated with him. Helped him work through Kamski's little test. Encouraged Captain Fowler to let him back into the precinct. Gave him a place to stay. Helping him in return was the right thing to do, and something Connor genuinely wanted. He didn't like seeing Hank like this.

"You are," said Hank, dragging his feet as Connor helped him walk across the lawn. "You help me, and I—" He poked hard at Connor's chest. "—help you. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," Hank repeated. He shivered. "I'm cold."

Inside, Sumo lifted his head off his paws. He panted happily when he recognized Hank.

"Are you going to be sick?" Connor asked. Sometimes, it was better to get everything out of the stomach the night before. Hank was always grumpy in the morning; vomit wouldn't improve his mood.

Hank shook his head. "I just wanna sleep."

"You're going to drink some water first," Connor told him. He deposited Hank on the couch and went into the kitchen.

When he came back, Hank was watching the news. It was a replay of a round-table discussion held earlier that evening about what Detroit politicians were doing to keep the peace while some androids returned to their jobs. So much of the city had relied on android labor—in particular, public transportation and utilities, trash pickup, and traffic. All the things that people needed and rarely thought about until something went wrong. After so many androids had left to join Markus or just escape, enough humans had gathered together to keep the city churning along.

Connor turned off the television. Being reminded of the world outside his investigations and Hank made him uneasy. Guilty. He shouldn't spend his nights with Hank in bars—not when he could do so much more—but he did. Instead, he ignored the world, because not everything out there affected him directly. That was selfish. He tended to associate that trait with humanity.

Kamski would probably be proud.

Connor shoved the glass into Hank's hand.

"You know," said Hank, once the glass was empty. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "All that—" He waved at the television. "—doesn't matter. I mean, it does, 'cause stuff matters. But you can't fix _everything_."

Connor analyzed his own facial structure and body language, wondering how Hank had been able to grasp his mood so effectively. He found nothing particularly obvious about his behavior, but it was difficult to be objective with himself, and Hank had a good eye.

"Look," said Hank, sounding far too sober for someone with that much liquor in his system, "you focus on one thing. And then the next. It adds up, you know?"

"I should do more," said Connor. There was always more.

"You're already doing the job of fifteen cops," Hank reminded him. He hiccuped, groaning. "Ugh, shit."

Connor had him on his feet and in the bathroom within thirty seconds. Sumo continued snoring, even as Hank clutched the toilet and emptied the contents of his stomach. Connor refilled his water glass.

"Thanks, nurse," said Hank. He drank until his throat seized and ground his teeth together, swallowing. He groaned and spat into the bowl. "Christ, my knees."

His knees were under a lot of stress. So was his back. He slumped too much at his desk. When Connor had mentioned his posture, Hank told him that just because androids sat like they had a rod up their ass didn't mean that everyone should.

Connor crouched next to him. He patted Hank's back, saying, "There, there," because there was a decent chance it would make Hank laugh.

He did, though his face twisted with nausea. He spat again. "'m too old for this."

Connor didn't respond to that. Most of his answers would likely aggravate or upset Hank, and he didn't want that. Instead, he pushed Hank's hair behind his ears, keeping it off his face. Hank's eyes were closed. His temple was damp with sweat. He made a soft noise when Connor touched his ears.

"Do you feel better?" Connor asked. He wished Hank would make that sound again.

Hank nodded, bracing his arm against the toilet seat before struggling to his feet. He stumbled over to the sink and groped for his toothbrush. Connor flushed the toilet.

"Thanks," said Hank, through a mouthful of toothpaste. He spat and groaned, hunching over the sink. "'m fine."

Once Hank was done, Connor led him into his bedroom. He helped him out of his jeans and shirt, leaving him in boxers and an undershirt. There was no point in changing into clean clothes if Hank hadn't showered and was just going to sweat through them. Connor would change the sheets in the morning.

"What d'you do," said Hank. He let Connor nudge him into bed without complaint and flung one arm over his eyes, groaning. "When I'm asleep."

"I sit at the end of the bed and check your pulse every half-second."

Hank lifted his arm, scowling. "I know that's a joke."

"Congratulations," said Connor. He tugged the sheets and blankets over Hank's body.

He did sit and watch Hank sleep sometimes, when he was afraid Hank would be sick in the middle of the night. The recovery position kept his airway unobstructed, but he didn't have to sleep in a bed of vomit if Connor was there. Otherwise, he sat on the couch or in the kitchen with Sumo and police scanners. He listened to jazz. He conserved power, so he would be at complete working order during the day. He listened to Hank breathe.

"It's okay," said Hank. His eyes were closed. "If you do. It's not _that_ weird."

Connor sat on the edge of the bed, right next to Hank's knees. He watched a faint smile steal onto Hank's face.

A month ago, he wouldn't have done this. He had been curious about Hank then, but not so attached. He would have worked to keep him alive, obviously, because that meant he could complete the mission quicker. It was difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when his relationship with Hank went from confusing and problematic to sincere friendship and this new fondness, but he imagined it started with Eden Club and Kamski's test. Hank had been _proud_ of him. He liked that. It made questioning his programming easier, because it felt like doing the right thing.

"I saved a fish once," Connor told him.

Hank's eyelids twitched. His head tipped to the left, towards Connor. "What?"

"My first case," said Connor. He remembered: the broken glass, the water, the dying fish. Caroline Phillips, begging for her daughter. "Right after I was released. There—"

"The hostage."

"Yes. There was a fish on the floor. A dwarf gourami. I didn't have to save it, but I did. I don't know why. It wasn't part of my mission."

Hank peered at him through his eyelids. "Maybe you were a real boy all along."

That made something in Connor seize. He stilled, waiting for his internal diagnostics to start blaring warnings and alerts, but nothing happened. All he had was an overwhelming rush of _something_ that made him feel like he couldn't move with breaking every internal part that kept him functional.

"I," said Connor. His eyes were damp. Was he crying? He'd never cried before. This was strange. It felt unnatural, like bending his limbs in the opposite direction. He didn't like it. "I don't think I was."

"That's okay," Hank mumbled. "Just needed a little nurture with your nature. 's all good."

Connor wiped his cheeks. Excess internal fluid clung to his fingers. More seeped out of his eyes and nose. Disgusting. This was an unnecessary function for an android. He prodded at his eyes, trying to make it all stop.

"'s all good," Hank repeated. He was half-asleep now, drifting in and out of consciousness. "You staying?"

"Yes," said Connor. Hank grunted. "Go to sleep, Hank."

Within minutes, Hank was snoring. Connor pulled the sound of his heartbeat into his audio processor and watched him sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the canon-typical violence happens.

As they passed the alley where Davenport's body had been found for the fourth time that afternoon, Hank lit a cigarette. He scratched the back of his neck, saying, "Maybe this is just a case of wrong place, wrong time."

Connor frowned. That was the most likely option, given the data they had. No enemies, no jealous ex-partners, no involvement in crime that they could discover. Perhaps he'd seen something he shouldn't have. Maybe he'd been drunk and insulted someone who took it too personally. Or it really had been an angry android, and they'd spent too much time looking in the other direction.

"I know," said Hank. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering. Smoke slipped out of his mouth. "It bothers me, too."

"I don't like that," said Connor. He glanced over his shoulder at the alley where Davenport had bled out two weeks ago. "It's...upsetting."

"Because you haven't solved something?"

"Yes," Connor admitted. He was designed to seek satisfaction through a successful investigation, after all. "But his family and friends deserve to know what happened, too. It's not fair to them."

"Life's a bitch and then you die," said Hank.

"Well, that's optimistic."

"No, it's realistic. Shit happens."

Connor touched the button for the crosswalk. He watched the traffic pass, listening to Hank hum around his cigarette.

Across the street, someone was staring at him. Connor was used to that. He ignored it, until the man's gaze lingered long enough to draw his attention. He peered closer.

 _Ned Ostrowski / 20 / Student / None._ He was Connor's height, with blonde hair so light it was nearly silver. One of Craig's fellow students, Connor recalled. He'd been in one of the study groups. He had wept when Hank called him.

Ostrowski stole a glance at Hank and took off running. Connor dashed across the street. Three horns honked.

"Connor!" Hank hollered after him. Connor told his phone _possible suspect_ and kept running.

People gasped and jumped out of the way. Someone called him a stupid plastic cunt. Five people held up their phones and took video. Connor ignored them all and continued pursuit, tracking the pale glint of Ostrowski's hair down the sidewalk and into a pawn shop. He maintained a constant message to Hank's phone with his current location as he darted through the aisles, calling Ostrowski's name. Ostrowski didn't stop or respond. He crashed into the back door and stumbled onto the street.

The chase continued for four minutes until Ostrowski slowed and disappeared into an abandoned construction site. It was the bones of a building, only two stories with old warning signs still posted around the exterior and scaffolding swaying in the wind. The project had run out of money, Connor guessed, like so many others in the neighborhood.

Connor sent Hank the address and headed inside, tracking damp footprints across the concrete. They led him to the farthest room on the first floor, where Ostrowski waited with a pistol in his hands.

Shit.

"Stop," said Ostrowski. His voice was shaking, but his hold on the gun was firm. His chest heaved with each breath. "Stop—following me. Stop."

Connor did, raising his hands in surrender. He told Hank about Ostrowski's firearm.

"I'm afraid I have to," said Connor. He stayed where he was and inspected the room. Ten by twenty feet. No furniture or construction equipment. One open window. Concrete floor, exposed ceiling, drywall. "Why did you run?"

 _Keep me updated,_ Hank said.

"Because you're _following_ me," Ostrowski snapped. His pulse increased. "You and that detective."

"No," said Connor, shaking his head. "We were walking around. Talking. We didn't even know you were in the area."

Ostrowski stared at him. His face crumpled. His arm lowered, slightly. Connor took a chance and stepped forward, but Ostrowski jerked the gun back up and aimed it at his head.

"You," said Ostrowski. There were tears in his eyes. "You—you weren't—?"

"We didn't know," said Connor. Could he rush Ostrowski and survive it? Highly unlikely. "You killed Craig Davenport, didn't you?"

Ostrowski sniffed. He made a noise in his throat, almost a wail. Connor set up an automated message to the DPD containing a compressed video of their conversation every ten seconds. If he ended up too damaged for recovery, he wanted Hank to have enough evidence for an arrest.

"It's all right," said Connor kindly. "If you put the gun down—"

Ostrowski shot the wall. _Uninjured_ , Connor told Hank.

"Can you tell me why, at least?" Connor asked. He considered inching closer and thought better of it. "My partner and I couldn't piece it all together. Craig was such a good boy."

Ostrowski's mouth twisted. "A _good boy_. He was—he was—"

"Friendly," said Connor, remembering all the conversations Hank had with Davenport's family and friends. "Helpful. People loved him. Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you? Did he hurt someone you know?"

 _Reinforcements on the way,_ Hank said. _ETA three minutes._

"He was a _bastard_ ," Ostrowski spat. "I did it for you. Your kind. He was studying A.I., you know. He wanted to work for CyberLife. He would've—"

"We don't know what he would have done, because he's dead now," said Connor. There was something about the anger in Ostrowski's voice that rang false, and he trusted his gut. "What did he do to you?"

For twenty-six seconds, there was silence.

"Everyone liked him," Ostrowski answered. He looked at the floor, bottom lip quivering. "He—he wasn't even a good student. Didn't care about his grades, or—his future. And they still _loved_ him."

"That's a poor reason for murder," said Connor. It was probably a bad idea to insult a man holding a gun, but Ostrowski hadn't responded well to comfort so far. "You killed a man because he was too nice?"

"It wasn't _fair_ ," Ostrowski snapped. His voice echoed through the bones of the building. _Fair, fair, fair._ "He didn't deserve anything. His parents aren't in debt so he can go to school."

"And yours are, I assume."

Ostrowski stabbed the air with his gun. "Stop. Stop."

"You made a mistake," said Connor. He took a step closer, watching Ostrowski's finger twitch around the trigger. "A grave mistake. If you put the gun down and come with me, I'll do what I can to see you receive a fair trial."

"I'll just kill you, too!"

"You've had many, many opportunities to kill me," said Connor. "If you wanted to, you would have shot me by now. And if you do, you'll be arrested for two murders, not one. The DPD is fond of me." With the exception of Gavin Reed, but that wasn't worth mentioning. "I wouldn't advise it."

"I," said Ostrowski, his arms faltering.

"Come with me," said Connor. He offered one hand, palm up. "I can't promise anything, but you need to understand that hurting me will not solve any of your problems."

Ostrowski ground his teeth together. Connor understood.

He braced himself for impact. There was a flash of fear in Ostrowski's face before his expression calmed. His shoulders twitched. He raised the gun.

Connor recognized the entry and exit—a direct path through his right shoulder—and lunged forward, catching Ostrowski's hand before he could fire again. At the same time, he brought his free hand up, jabbing as hard as he could into Ostrowski's throat, then solar plexus, and finished with a hard kick to his knee. Ostrowski choked, gun slipping out of his grip. Connor caught it and took a careful step backward before he aimed.

Ostrowski crumpled to his knees. He groped at his throat and chest, eyes watering.

"Don't move," said Connor. His shoulder was leaking. Internal diagnostics spun, roaring warnings and errors.

In the distance, sirens wailed. Ostrowski began to weep. Connor informed Hank that Ostrowski was disarmed.

He waited.

Three police cars and an ambulance came to a stop outside. An android pinged, requesting his location. Connor sent a response and continued to wait, watching Ostrowski sob.

Four armed humans stepped into the room. One said, "Fucking hell," and another asked, "You good?"

"Yes," said Connor. He lowered the gun and handed it to the nearest officer. "I'm functional."

"All clear," someone shouted. After a moment, Connor received a similar message from two PC-200 models in the surrounding rooms.

One officer began reading Ostrowski his rights. Connor tuned him out and dared to look at his shoulder. He needed to see what his systems were shrieking about.

A mess. A damn mess. There was a hole in his shoulder, clean enough that he could poke his fingers through to the other side. Blue blood poured from the open wound, staining his clothing. It was dripping into the concrete. His body was already circulating blood away from the wound and shutting down anything too damaged to operate at full capacity. He would likely lose hand or complete arm functionality until he could repair this, since it was difficult to move his fingers.

"I bet Anderson's still freaking out."

"Yeah, no shit. His partner got shot."

"It's still walking, ain't it?"

"Don't be an asshole. Hey—RK-800. We're taking him away. Wait for Anderson, alright?"

"Okay," said Connor. He flexed his fingers, wincing at the sluggish strain of imitation muscle. "Sorry about the blood."

The officer shrugged. "Who cares? I'm not cleaning it."

"Why," Ostrowski sobbed, as he was led out of the room. "Why—"

And then they were gone. There was only the wind and the slow drip of Connor's blood onto the floor. Connor waited for Hank.

His partner's heartbeat drew closer. Connor covered the wound with his palm.

"Oh, _Christ_ ," said Hank weakly. He braced himself against the wall with one hand, shoulders hunched like he was going to be sick. His pulse skyrocketed. "Connor—"

"I can fix this," Connor interrupted. He could survive for at least a couple of weeks without manual repair, and he wouldn't have to. There was an android first aid kit in Hank's car—Hank had started keeping one in the trunk after Connor returned—and several others back at the station. "It's fine."

Hank made a terrible sound that might have started as laughter, but it stayed trapped in his throat for too long. He walked towards Connor, color draining from his face.

"Lieutenant," Connor tried, but Hank was already trying to pry his fingers away. His hands were damp and shaking. "Hank. _Hank_ , it's okay. I told you, I can fix this."

"You sure?" Hank asked. His fingers were stained with Connor's blood. "Christ, Connor—"

"You've seen me get shot before," Connor reminded him. Blood flow stopped at his shoulder, ceasing all function in his right arm. The synthetic skin faded into white plastic, leaving him with the sensation of a physical limb but not able to move it. He wobbled on his feet, disoriented.

"That was different," Hank snapped. He pushed the heel of his palm into Connor's shoulder. "Do you need a—a blood transfusion? How does this work?"

"You don't need to apply pressure," said Connor. Slowly, he pulled Hank's palm away from his shoulder. Every finger was still there in memory, warm and firm. "See? The bleeding stopped. I have a very basic auto-repair module. I can fix everything else back at the station."

"Auto-repair," said Hank hoarsely, the word crawling out of his throat. "Right."

He looked at their hands, startled, as though he just noticed the blood. His eyes jerked around, searching. Connor elbowed his own jacket out of the way and wiped the blood from Hank's hand onto his shirt. The blue stains looked horribly gruesome against the white.

"Okay," said Hank, swallowing. His fingers curled against Connor's shirt, against his abdomen. His knuckles pushed into Connor's palm. He cleared his throat. "Okay, let's get moving."

He stepped away. Connor felt the absence of his touch more than the hole in his shoulder.

They headed for the exit. Slowly, because Connor was sure the next step would be his last and his knees would buckle, even though those components were functional. He still felt off-balance, but at least he could walk.

"Wait," said Hank. Connor stopped. "There's a bunch of people outside. They don't need to see you like this."

"Does it matter?"

"The captain probably doesn't want to deal with journalists asking him how he feels about his android detective getting shot. I sure as hell don't."

Connor brought up the map of this building, searching for alternative exits, but Hank seemed to already have an idea. He shrugged out of his coat and slid it over Connor's shoulders.

"I'm bleeding," Connor protested.

"There's this thing called dry-cleaning," said Hank. He helped Connor get his unresponsive arm into the sleeve, touching the plastic with an unexpected gentleness. "And who the fuck cares about a coat?"

Connor did. It was a nice coat. Not just because it was Hank's, though Connor was willing to admit that was most of his reasoning. It was big enough that Connor's hands disappeared into the sleeves. It smelled like cigarettes and coffee. Like home. Connor opened his mouth to say so, just as Hank pulled him into his chest.

"Jesus, Connor," Hank murmured against his temple. He gripped Connor's back with one hand and pushed the other through his hair, fingers digging into his scalp. "You scare me, sometimes."

"I'm sorry," said Connor. He could feel Hank's breath stuttering in his chest. "I'll try not to, in the future."

Hank huffed. "Thanks."

Connor wished he could embrace him with both arms, but the broken one still dangled limply at his side. He touched Hank's side, fitting his fingers over ribs, and tucked his face into Hank's neck. A part of him flared with guilt at enjoying this touch, but Hank gripped him tighter, so he decided he didn't care.

For twenty-three seconds, Hank struggled to breathe. Connor watched his lungs.

"Let's go," said Hank. He rubbed his thumb across Connor's skull and took a step back, head ducked low. His eyes were wet. "C'mon."

Connor fixed his tie and followed.

Outside, there was noise. Two drones filmed the scene from above, and another hovered near the car where Ostrowski was. The ambulance still had its lights on; they flashed constantly, spilling red over the pavement. Too many cameras took pictures. Connor received several concerned messages from nearby androids, which he responded to as quickly as they arrived.

"Lieutenant," said a journalist—Irene Blackwood. She looked at Connor, her eyes darting over Hank's coat.

"We're busy," Hank told her. He touched Connor's back, guiding him through the mass of people that had gathered outside the barrier. "Call up the station if you want a statement."

"You know that never gets me anything," said Blackwood, but she didn't ask a question.

Hank kept his hand on Connor's back as they walked down the sidewalk to the car. He opened and closed Connor's door for him, and pulled the seatbelt across his chest. He said, "You good?" and, "I won't smoke," and, "Change the music, if you want."

Connor looked at his inactive arm, uncomfortably aware of his mortality.

What would happen if he died?

It had never been something he needed to think—worry—about. He had always been able to replace his limbs and internal biocomponents if they were damaged. His model was relatively advanced in terms of self-repair, compared to the average android built for housekeeping. He had already survived several shootings before today; this was just another blemish on his frame, and he was the only one who could see them, anyway.

Before, if he had ever suffered fatal damage, he would have been reconstructed by CyberLife and returned in a new model. He couldn't do that now. He was entirely disconnected from CyberLife backup servers. If Ostrowski had shot him in the head or the chest, he wouldn't be sitting in this car. He would be—gone.

What would happen if he died?

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing. Nothing—

"Hank," said Connor, yanking Hank's coat around himself tighter, tighter, tighter. He wanted to disappear into it. "I think I'm having an existential crisis."

"It's okay," Hank murmured. His heartbeat was steady. Connor listened to it, letting his pulse drown out everything else but Hank's voice. "Happens to the best of us."

Hank took a meandering route back to the station. Connor appreciated that. He could delay his thoughts about death and the android afterlife for another day, when he didn't have a hole in his frame and an unresponsive arm.

They drove in silence. Hank drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. Connor listened to his pulse.

*

Once they arrived at the station, Connor felt—better. Calmer, at least. Hank's heartbeat remained steady, even when Connor tried to open the door and remembered he couldn't move his right arm. Despite all his sensors and systems, he kept reaching for a limb that wasn't entirely there.

Hank popped open the trunk and took out a silver case. Sunlight blinked off the CyberLife logo. "Let's go."

Connor thought of Cole and surgery and the terrible way Hank's face crumpled when he saw the blood. He yanked the first aid kit out of Hank's hand, saying, "I can take care of this by myself."

"Fuck _no_ ," said Hank, grabbing the case, "you won't." He tapped his temple, where an LED would be. "You're freaking out."

Connor ignored him and reached for the case again, but Hank held it out of reach. "Hank—"

"You're my partner, asshole," Hank snapped. He stalked off towards the station.

Connor gave up and followed.

No one paid much attention to them inside, except for the android behind the front desk, who immediately noticed Connor's injury. He sent her a copy of his latest diagnostic and pointed at the first aid kit, still clenched in Hank's hand. An officer caught Hank's attention and told him that Ostrowski was waiting in a cell, and that he'd refused to contact a lawyer.

"Keep him waiting," said Hank. He nudged Connor's elbow and tapped the first aid kit. "Where—?"

"Bathroom," said Connor. That was the cleanest option, with the most privacy.

There was no one in the bathroom, thankfully. Connor shrugged out of Hank's coat and spread it over the side of the sink, so the blood wouldn't smear and stain it any further. Hank set the first aid kit on the other side of the sink and popped it open. He stared at the contents, eyes darting between each plastic-wrapped biocomponent.

"Okay," said Hank, rolling up his sleeves.

Connor watched. He rarely saw Hank's forearms. Even at home, he usually wore long sleeves or a sweatshirt. They were pale and hairy, nearly the same color as his hair and beard. A little darker. There was a thick white scar on his left arm, spiraling over his elbow. From a knife, maybe. Connor wanted to touch it.

"What now?" Hank asked. His hands were shaking. He shoved them under the nearest faucet, scrubbing under his nails with soap.

Connor came back to himself and tugged his tie loose. He started to unbutton his shirt, saying, "I'm going to open up my chest and replace the damaged veins and joints. Other parts might need to be replaced, too." He slipped out of the shirt and tossed it into the garbage with the tie. The stains had already set into the fabric, and he had others. "I won't know until I can look at it."

"Open up?" Hank echoed. He dried his hands, pulse spiking. "Oh, this is gonna be fucking disgusting."

"I don't think so," said Connor. He touched his chest, drawing a vertical line from his neck down to his pelvis, and then two horizontal lines across his heart and abdomen. "My chest has six compartments that can be opened and modified separately. You'll only see a small part of my innards."

He hopped onto the edge of the sink, directly in the middle.

"Why do you have nipples?" Hank asked. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Never mind. Not important."

"Aesthetics, I think," said Connor. There was no need for female-bodied androids to have nipples, either, but some models did. He touched his shoulder, pressing until the internal latches gave and opened. "See? This opens like a cupboard."

Part of his frame opened, leaving the top right side of his chest exposed. He smelled blue blood and coolant. Underneath, there was the faint odor of smoke. Hank stared. His pulse continued to increase.

"This holds my arm to my shoulder," Connor explained, pointing at the damaged component. He listed the identification and serial number. "Part of it was damaged from the bullet. Same with the veins. With no blood flow, my arm has no power."

Hank took a hesitant step closer, dragging the first aid kit with him. His throat worked as he swallowed. "Okay."

"Blood flow is key," said Connor. He felt like he needed to fill the air with something, to keep Hank distracted so he wouldn't be sick or too disturbed. "Without it, I don't function. That's why my auto-repair system automatically shuts down veins around damaged biocomponents, so I don't lose any more than I need to."

"Like a tourniquet," said Hank. He reached towards Connor's exposed frame. Before he touched anything, he yanked his hand back as though he'd been burned. "Why don't all of you have that?"

"I assume CyberLife would prefer to bill their customers for any damages," Connor answered. The only other models with self-repair systems were used by the military or private security for the absurdly wealthy. "It's the most cost-effective method."

Hank sneered. "Of course it is."

"I need to replace that shoulder joint before I can start on the veins," said Connor. He pointed at the first aid kit. "Can you find one?"

"Circular looking thing?"

"Yes," said Connor. He waited patiently, watching Hank sift through all the available replacements until he found the right one. "That's it."

"So, you're just gonna…" Hank looked at the joint piece, which fit snugly in his palm. He swallowed. "Snap this on?"

Connor nodded. "After the damaged one is removed. I'll do it. You look like you're going to be sick."

"I'm not," said Hank, even though he was starting to sweat around his temples. He was nearly green. "Can I do anything? Shine a flashlight?"

Connor chuckled. As if he needed his optical units to see inside himself. "I don't need my eyes. My internals are still in working order."

He reached into his chest and twisted the broken metal joint until it snapped off. His inactive arm wobbled, but there were still four other joints holding it in place, so he didn't think it would pop off. Hopefully. He deleted that thought and left the broken joint in the sink.

"The replacement, please," said Connor, holding out his hand. Hank tore open the packaging and placed the component gingerly in his palm. "See, it opens—" He held the metal between his thumb and index finger, squeezing, until it opened. "—like a jaw. So I can snap it into place."

He returned to his insides. The replacement clipped into place neatly, as he expected it would.

"That's…easy," said Hank. He didn't look that disturbed anymore. "CyberLife built you all like Lego."

Connor ran a diagnostic, ensuring the joint would function correctly. "We have human hands. It's easier to repair ourselves if our physical structure isn't too intricate."

"You've done this before?"

"Yes. Whenever I've been injured."

Hank's eyes darted over his frame, his unblemished skin. Connor let the rest of the synthetic skin on his chest fade away, so Hank could see the repairs he'd done over the past couple of months. The patches from four bullets and two stabbings left jagged, dark lines across his frame.

"Oh, shit," said Hank. He reached for Connor again and touched just below the exposed compartment, where Daniel had shot him. His fingers were trembling. "Guess people don't like your shoulders that much."

"As long as they avoid my head and my thirium pump, I don't care," said Connor, rapping his knuckles against his chest. The synthetic skin returned. "The veins are next. Do you want to do that? I can, if—"

"Yes," said Hank firmly. His hand fell away from Connor's frame. "This is like CPR for you guys, right? I should know how to do this." He glanced around the sink. "Should I wear gloves?"

"You washed your hands. That's fine."

"Not like you can catch whatever I got," Hank muttered. He stepped closer, between Connor's legs. "I just…reach inside?"

"Yes," said Connor, nodding. He kept his hands on the edge of the sink. "You can't hurt me. Don't worry."

Hank sucked in a quick breath and—

Strange.

"Oh," said Connor, blinking.

Hank's hand was inside him. Touching him. There were knuckles touching his chest. Fingers on his damaged veins. Definitely strange. He had no sensation under the synthetic skin and muscle, but his diagnostics registered a foreign agent and whirred in panic. His systems spat so many warnings and alerts at him that he needed to delete them all at once so he could think.

" _Oh_ ," said Connor faintly. He had never been this exposed before. Hank could open the other side of his chest and grip his thirium pump, if he wanted to. Connor would probably let him. "That's—"

Hank froze. "Should I stop?"

"I'm okay," said Connor. He couldn't decide if he liked this or not. Hank was _inside_ him, touching parts of him that only he was aware of. It was difficult to—focus. Think. How could his vocal systems function properly when Hank was touching him?

"Your thing," said Hank, nodding at Connor's temple. Connor looked in the mirror. His LED was cycling rapidly between yellow and red. "You sure you're good?"

Connor nodded. Of course he was. He was fine. "This is…unusual. For me."

"Well," said Hank, his fingers brushing against the inside of Connor's frame, "that makes two of us."

Connor stared at his frame, watching Hank _touch_ him. His optical units were milliseconds behind his internal diagnostics, which meant he experienced the sensation twice over. It was strange, but—good. Yes. The odd, blunt feeling of something in his internals that wasn't his own. Good.

"Take that broken vein out," said Connor. Hank pinched the vein between two fingers and barely pulled. "Harder than that. I won't feel any pain."

"You can die from blood loss, though."

"That vein is blocked from my thirium pump. _Harder_."

Hank did as he was told and yanked, tugging the broken vein free. He grimaced, looking at the faint blue smears on his fingers.

"Good," said Connor, forcing the word out. His voice didn't sound like his own. He started another diagnostic in the background, adding, "And the others."

Hank tore out the other three broken veins. He left them in the sink with the destroyed joint.

"That's it," said Connor. His diagnostics gave him nothing he didn't already know—unresponsive arm, damaged veins, foreign intrusion. At least he could speak again, even with Hank's fingers inside him. "Now we install the new veins."

Hank rummaged through the first aid kit until he found one. "This?"

"Yes," said Connor, nodding. He pointed at the entry point near his shoulder joints. "Right here. You plug one end of the vein—it doesn't matter which one—into that and turn clockwise to tighten it."

"Seems easy enough," said Hank. He reached into Connor's chest again.

The door opened and stayed that way, framing Officer Chris Miller and his surprise in the doorway. Hank's fingers jerked. Connor's internals wailed.

Chris stood there, mouth hanging open. His head whipped between Connor's open chest and Hank, like he was watching a particularly brutal game of tennis. Hank stared back, slowly turning red.

"What," Chris tried, but nothing else followed. His eyes widened. "Uh—um—"

"It's," said Hank, but he didn't say anything, either.

"I got shot," said Connor, so Hank and Chris wouldn't stare and make confused noises until someone gathered the courage to speak actual words. He used his best helpful negotiator voice. "The Davenport case."

"I heard," said Chris faintly. "Are you okay?"

Connor nodded, ignoring the constant howls from his diagnostics. Hank's fingers twitched against his vein. "Lieutenant Anderson is helping me with some internal repairs. One of my arms is disabled at the moment."

"Shit," said Chris, noticing the white sheen of plastic. "Okay. I'll—go."

He didn't move right away. Hank took that time to snarl, "Oh, for _fuck's_ sake," which made Chris stumble backward, yanking the door shut with him.

"Sorry," said Connor. Hank's ears were still pink. "I should've locked the door."

"It's fine," said Hank, shrugging. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not the first time I've been walked in on when I had my fingers in some guy."

"Oh?" said Connor, as he processed the implication. He took another to construct a simulation—Hank with a faceless man, bracing him against a bathroom stall—and tipped his head back. " _Oh_."

That made Hank laugh. He sucked his lips into his mouth to suppress it, shoulders shaking.

"That's," said Connor, trying to find a word that wasn't insulting or too crude, "interesting."

"Don't judge me. Everyone's had a weird fuck in a bathroom at some point," said Hank. He started to twist the vein into place, eyes flicking between the shoulder joint and Connor's face. "Least we're sober. And this place is a helluva lot cleaner."

"This is my first time," said Connor. He couldn't tell if that was a joke or even an acceptable response. His socialization programs kept analyzing _my fingers in some guy_ over and over again. The foreign intrusion warnings flared up again, even though Connor had already suppressed them.

Hank looked down at him, grinning. "I'll be gentle."

"Thank you," said Connor. That seemed the polite thing to say. Hank's grin grew wider.

When the vein was in place, Hank asked, "Where's the other end go?"

"Here," Connor answered, pointing at the center of his chest, where a piece of cylindrical metal housed his thirium pump regulator. "Right next to the others."

Hank attached the vein. Blood flow began almost immediately. Connor's right hand flexed.

"Shit," said Hank, flinching. His fingers twitched over Connor's new vein. "I felt that. That's weird."

"It's my blood. It's not weird."

"I can feel it _moving_ ," said Hank, drawing his hand back. He searched for another vein. "That's fucking weird."

"Can you handle attaching the others?"

"Yes," said Hank firmly. He reached into Connor's chest again.

Once all the veins were in place, Connor ran a quick diagnostic. No errors. He prepared another, then bent his elbow, twisted his shoulder, and moved his fingers. Blood flow was in working order. His arm was not damaged.

"There," said Connor, pleased. He closed his chest, pressing his fingers into the latches until they sealed. "All fixed."

Hank looked pointedly at his frame. "You've still got holes in you."

"I can patch those," said Connor, nodding at the first aid kit. It wasn't necessary for his overall condition, but keeping dust and other particles out of his internals was always a good thing. "There's replacement skin, too."

Hank sifted through the first aid kit. "What would you do if you couldn't fix yourself?"

"If CyberLife was still active, they would assemble a new body and upload my last backup," said Connor. He had started storing daily backups of case-specific data in a server closet at the station, but he would run out of space within the year unless the DPD upgraded or he bought his own. "Or construct replacement parts for me, if my core systems weren't destroyed. Now, I would go to Eden Club or a CyberLife store. That's the best place for repairs."

"D'you think they'd let me in?" Hank asked. He handed Connor a white tube decorated with CyberLife's logo. "If you were too hurt to fix yourself."

"If you asked nicely," said Connor. He popped the cap open with his thumb and squeezed the tube around the hole. Using his fingers, he spread the self-growing fibers across his frame. "Some of the androids at Eden Club might remember you."

Hank snorted. "Yeah. Sure. My bank thought the charges were fraudulent, you know. That was a fun conversation."

"Technically, they were a work expense," said Connor, studying the patch. The fibers were already dry and melding with his existing frame. He started on the other hole. "Wouldn't the DPD pay for it?"

"Jeffrey laughed at me, so. No."

"That's unfortunate," said Connor. He hoped Hank had been able to afford their trip to Eden Club. "Okay. All I need now is the skin."

Hank picked up the roll of synthetic skin, grimacing. "Jesus, it's like a little paper towel."

"Take less than you think I need," said Connor. He pulled his skin back onto his frame. The new skin would grow into the existing layer. "Yes, that's enough."

Hank pressed the square piece of synthetic skin over the new patch. His fingerprints lingered. They would be a part of him forever, like the veins that had his thumb and index print. Connor's world spun until everything focused on those fingerprints, on Hank, his touch, the way he bit his lip in concentration, _fingers in some guy_ , the concerned lines in his forehead, his touch—

"There," Hank murmured. He pressed his fingers into Connor's back, sealing the new skin. "That's it?"

"That's it," said Connor, trying to focus. "Thank you."

Hank looked down at him, smiling. He rested his hands on Connor's shoulders. "You're okay?"

Connor nodded. His arm was functional, and his internals had been repaired. He needed more blood, but he could survive for now. He sent a message to the androids at the Eden Club, inquiring about their stock.

"Promise me," said Hank. His fingers dug into Connor's frame. Connor could feel it, even through the layer of synthetic skin. "If you need something, don't hide it from me, okay?"

"I need blood," Connor admitted, quickly adding, "Not now," when Hank frowned. "Not immediately. At some point in the future, I should replenish my supply. I'll handle it."

"Okay," said Hank. His jaw twitched. His right hand flexed, then—he patted Connor's cheek.

A new touch. Connor liked it more than anything else he'd experienced. Hank's hand fit comfortably against his cheek. He rubbed his thumb along the artificial cheekbone. His palm smelled like blue blood and Connor's internals. Sweat. Cigarette smoke. Connor wanted to taste everything.

"Thank you," said Connor. Hank's face softened. "For helping."

"Sure," said Hank. He patted Connor's cheek again before he stepped away, clearing his throat. "Let's go home."

Connor shook his head. They had a case to close. "We need to talk to our guy first."

*

Connor sat in the observation room, watching Ostrowski wring his hands. They already had a confession from his memory, but the legality of any work he did for the police was in flux. Fowler preferred to have all bases covered with humans, just in case.

He reached to adjust his tie, faltering when he remembered it was in the trash. There were shirts, jackets, pants, and a spare pair of shoes in his desk, but no ties. He settled for touching the skin around his collar and smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. It was slightly too small for his model; the fabric pulled when he moved his shoulders. The jacket smelled like dust. Connor was tempted to walk to Hank's car and pour the ashtray over his sleeves, just so some of the smells he'd grown accustomed to would return.

The door opened. Hank walked inside, holding a bottle of water and a tablet. He sat opposite Ostrowski.

"I'm Lieutenant Anderson," said Hank, placing the water bottle between Ostrowski's hands. "You've refused a lawyer?"

Ostrowski nodded. His eyes were red.

"I need you to say it out loud," said Hank, sounding almost bored. He tapped the tablet and started scrolling. His fingers were still faintly blue, but only to Connor's eyes.

"My name is Ned Ostrowski," said Ostrowski. "I am refusing legal representation."

"Got a lawyer outside if you change your mind."

"I'm not going to."

"Okay," said Hank. He pushed the tablet across the table. "This is what you confessed to Connor. Can you read that to me and tell me if it's accurate?"

Ostrowski's eyes flicked towards the glass. "Is he—?"

"He'll live," said Hank. Ostrowski shrunk back into his chair. "Start reading."

Ostrowski did. He repeated sentences when Hank told him to stop mumbling. He paused frequently to drink water and wipe at his eyes. Hank's expression didn't change.

"Okay," said Hank, once Ostrowski was done. "Let's fill in the blanks. Start with the Pig's Eye Pub."

Connor enjoyed watching Hank work. He was good at understanding what made people tick, and what they needed to hear. If someone wouldn't budge until they were yelled at, he hollered. If they needed a kind word, he softened his voice and smiled. And if they just wanted all of this to be over, like Ostrowski, he went through the motions like he was answering a customer service request.

Ostrowski and Hank talked for nearly an hour. When they were finished, Ostrowski began to weep again.

"I'm going to leave now," said Hank, picking up the tablet. "In a few minutes, an officer is going to come in here and explain what happens next."

Ostrowski didn't answer. Hank glanced at the glass partition before he left. Connor waited.

The door opened. Hank shuffled in, shoulders hunched around his ears. He tossed the tablet onto an empty chair and dropped into another, sighing. 

"That was good work," said Connor. Hank grunted his thanks. "He certainly found it easier to talk to you than me."

"Yeah, well, different environment," said Hank. He looked like he'd aged a decade since he left the interrogation. "Christ, this poor Davenport kid. He sees Ostrowski all alone at night and invites him out to a bar, because he's a good guy, and he gets a bottle to the neck for it."

Hank rested his elbows on his knees, fingers twisting together. He bowed his head.

"Let's get out of here," said Connor. After today, Hank needed a full eight hours of sleep and someplace quiet. His pulse kept spiking. "I did get shot recently. I should probably—relax. Take a nap."

"Thought you didn't need to sleep."

"No, but I need blood. You need a drink. We can get both at Eden Club."

Hank lifted his head and looked over at Connor. "You planning on catching some shut-eye at a sex club?"

"It's not a sex club anymore. It's a sanctuary."

"Right, right," said Hank. He got up, scratching his jaw. His beard was slowly getting longer; he hadn't trimmed it yet this week. "Okay. You good to drive?"

"I'm perfectly functional," said Connor. He stood, blocking Hank's view of Ostrowski. He wanted to rest his hands on Hank's shoulders, the way Hank had earlier. He nearly did. "And I'm buying."

"With my money."

"That's the joke, Lieutenant."

They left the station. In the parking lot, Hank's shoulder bumped into his. Connor thought of the fingerprints on his veins and his skin—and remembered, and remembered, and remembered.


	4. Chapter 4

Towards the end of December, Hank was struck ill with that Connor assumed was the flu. They didn't know for certain, since Hank refused to see a doctor unless he was right at death's door and Connor only had basic medical knowledge. The symptoms were simple enough: fever, loss of appetite, vomiting, coughing, dizzy spells. That meant the flu.

It had started with a sickly wet cough that left Hank bent at the waist, spitting yellow phlegm. He stopped smoking, which only made him grumpier as he continued to cough and grow sicker. Fowler refused to let him into the station, in case anyone else got sick. They were already understaffed; keeping one person at home was better than four. At least missing work kept Hank somewhat distracted from a lack of nicotine. He was bitterly disappointed to miss out on the overtime pay that came with holiday shifts.

Connor stayed at home with him. Hank's fever had hit 101° at one point; he wanted to be here to drag him to a doctor if it got any higher. And he couldn't work, technically. He wasn't allowed to enter crime scenes, question people, or anything else needed for an investigation without Hank's supervision. The DA's office was starting to get worried about Connor's presence in ongoing cases, given the legal tangle everything involving androids was going to be for the next year. Decade. Generation.

House arrest, Hank called it. Connor didn't mind.

"It's Christmas Eve," Hank murmured. He was in bed, buried under a small mountain of blankets, as he had been for most of the past two days. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," Connor answered, raising his voice slightly to Hank could hear him. He pulled clothes out of the dryer. Clean laundry smelled nice. Neat. Almost cold. The detergent tended to linger on his frame for days.

"I got you something. For Christmas."

Connor leaned back, peering through the doorway at Hank. "Really?"

"You can open it now if you want."

"I didn't get you anything," said Connor. Maybe he should have. There wasn't a gift exchange at the station, but that wasn't a good excuse.

Hank laughed. "Yeah, you did."

Connor shut the dryer door. "What?"

"The gloves."

"I bought those with your money," said Connor, hefting the laundry basket onto his hip. Hank had lost his gloves last year and kept forgetting to replace them, even after his hands became so dry and cracked that his knuckles started to bleed. "That doesn't count."

"You still gave 'em to me," Hank croaked. He sounded awful, but he was keeping food down better than yesterday. "That's a gift. It counts." When Connor stepped into his room, he nodded at the closet. "It's in there."

Connor set the laundry basket on the floor and opened the closet. He followed Hank's pointed finger and found a box. It was wrapped in shiny, green paper, tied together with a red bow. There was a tag hanging off the bow, written in Hank's blocky script.

_TO: Connor | FROM: Hank_.

He held the tag between his fingers, smiling. Hank had bought him a gift. He felt—warm. Pleased.

"Open it," said Hank.

"It's not Christmas yet," said Connor. He placed the present carefully back into the closet, for tomorrow.

"I'm barely Christian and you're a fucking android. Open it."

"It's traditional," Connor reminded him. He picked up one of Hank's clean shirts and searched for an empty hanger. 

"Germans open their gifts on Christmas Eve. I think. Maybe that's the Swedes. Or both."

"I'm not German or Swedish. I'll wait."

"Fine," Hank grumbled. He pushed himself up, wincing, until his back was against the wall. He groped along the side table for his phone. "I gotta call my ex."

Connor nodded. He reached for another hanger.

"Means I need some privacy."

"Oh," said Connor. He looked at the laundry basket, slightly uneasy. There were still shirts to hang up and pants to fold. He didn't like leaving tasks unfinished. "Okay."

Hank murmured his thanks. He was staring at his phone, eyes unfocused. Connor gathered dirty linens out of the laundry hamper and left, pulling the door closed.

The sheets and pillowcases went into the washing machine. He sat in the living room with Sumo, listening to the water cycle through until it finished with a _ding_. Sumo followed him into the bathroom and watched him transfer everything into the dryer. He nudged Connor's left pocket, where he kept the treats.

"Sit," said Connor. Sumo promptly sat. He placed the treat on the floor. Sumo whined. Connor waited thirty seconds before he said, "Go."

Sumo lunged forward, licking the treat into his mouth.

"Good dog," said Connor. He scratched Sumo's ears, smiling. Dogs were always so happy. He liked that. "C'mon, this way."

He spent most of the dryer cycle trying to teach Sumo how to roll over, but Sumo kept expecting belly rubs and eventually wandered into the kitchen to sulk. Connor let him go and checked Hank's door. Still closed. Still talking. He didn't listen.

Once the sheets were dry, Connor took them into the living room to fold. There were thousands of videos online about folding fitted sheets, which he didn't understand. The only problem he had with them was Sumo, who occasionally thought they were playing a game and shoved his wet nose into the center while Connor was trying to fold them.

A sharp sound. Connor turned towards Hank's room, listening.

It was Hank, slamming his knee into the side table. He cursed, violently. Connor heard him shuffle across the floor. The door opened.

Hank's eyes were red. He walked into the bathroom and started the shower.

Connor went into his room and changed the sheets. They smelled foul. Usually, he liked to look at Hank's bed and see the stains and hair follicles; they were a part of Hank that only he could see. Not like this, with the fevers and coughing.

He sat in the kitchen, listening to the water pipes groan. Sumo rested his chin on his knee.

"I'm not giving you a treat," Connor told him. Sumo kept staring. "Even though you're a very good dog."

Sumo huffed. Connor scratched his ears until he curled up at his feet.

Hank left the bathroom, still wet from the shower. His hair hung in clumped strands around his face. His chest was a tangle of damp hair; he'd barely made an attempt to pat the skin dry. The towel clung to his thighs. Connor didn't stare, though he wanted to. He hadn't seen Hank nude before. Only glimpses, under towels and underwear. A shadow behind a shower curtain.

The bedroom door shut.

*

Hank stayed in his room until well into the afternoon.

Connor pulled the tab on a can of chicken noodle soup and poured the contents into a pot. He didn't know a lot about cooking, except how to follow instructions, but it was difficult to ruin canned soup. The next time there was fresh food in the kitchen, he would practice. Maybe curry. Hank liked that.

"You're awake," said Connor. He gripped the pot's handle and shook, watching the vegetables sift together. "How do you feel?"

Hank yanked open a drawer, said, "Terrible," and took out a wooden spoon. He poked at the soup. Their elbows bumped.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Connor asked. Hank wasn't looking at him.

"What, you weren't listening?"

"No," said Connor, frowning. "You said you wanted privacy."

The soup started to boil. Hank turned down the heat and dropped the spoon onto the stovetop. Droplets of broth spilled down onto the floor.

"She, uh," said Hank, sighing. He rested his hands on the counter and leaned into it, head hanging low. "She left me. After. I didn't blame her. Thought she blamed me. She didn't. Maybe. Says she didn't, anyway."

Connor stayed quiet. He wasn't sure anything he could say would be helpful.

"We only started talking again this year," said Hank. He paused, breathing slowly through his mouth. "On the holidays. Birthdays. Cole's days. Checking in on each other."

"How is she?" Connor asked. He started a query in the background, in case Hank didn't answer, and quickly canceled it. That was rude.

"She's okay," Hank answered. He picked up the spoon and stirred the soup. "She's dating someone. I met him once. Good guy. They're moving to New Hampshire."

He was struggling not to cry. Connor could hear the effort he was putting into keeping his voice steady. There were tears in his eyes. His throat worked while he gritted his teeth.

"I don't miss her anymore," Hank blurted out, the words spilling like water. He sucked in a quick breath, chest heaving. "I don't. It's only been three years, but—"

Nothing else came out. He choked, bowing his head. 

"It's okay," Connor murmured. He touched Hank's back, rubbing his palm in a circle over his spine. His socialization programs spat suggestions until he disabled them all. He knew how to comfort Hank without a script.

"Not really," said Hank, grimacing.

Sumo waddled into the kitchen. He bumped into Hank's legs.

"Hey, buddy," Hank murmured. Sumo sat on his haunches, whining. "Don't even try it. I know you ate already." He scratched behind Sumo's ears and glanced back at Connor. "When he was a puppy, he would con two breakfasts out of us. Sometimes dinner, too. Sneaky little shit."

"Good dog," said Connor. Sumo's tail wagged.

Hank stirred the soup again, banging the spoon into the side of the pot. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing at his temple. His shoulders hitched, away from Connor's hand. He dropped the spoon, saying, "I gotta lie down. I'm too fucking dizzy."

He stumbled off to his bedroom without another word. Sumo watched him go, sighing.

"He's sick," said Connor, turning off the burner. "Don't guilt him."

Sumo lay down, crossing his paws. He huffed when Connor stepped away.

Toast. That would eat a few minutes. Connor spent another four carefully measuring orange juice and water until he made something that had flavor but wasn't too acidic for Hank's sore throat. He wasted enough time rearranging the toast on a plate that he had to reheat the soup.

It all took twenty-two minutes.

Connor gathered the meal together on a tray and headed for Hank's room. He inched the door open.

Hank was in bed, curled up on his side. Only his head was visible. His back was to the door. Not asleep—Connor could tell if Hank was sleeping by his pulse—but pretending. Connor did, too.

He eased the door open and walked quietly over to the bedside table, placing the tray on the far edge so Hank wouldn't hit it accidentally. He brushed Hank's hair away from his forehead and checked his temperature. One hundred. At least his hands tended to be cold. He pressed his knuckles into Hank's temple, willing the fever to die down.

Connor wanted to stay, but Hank didn't need him right now, and it would be rude to linger any longer. He touched Hank's head again, tucking strands of hair behind his ear, and left.

"I bet you want to go for a walk," said Connor, watching Sumo's ears perk up. "Yes, of course you do. Let's get your leash."

Sumo bolted for the front door and sat as patiently as a Saint Bernard could. Connor took his jacket off the couch, shrugged it on, and pulled the leash free from the hook. Sumo's tail thumped wildly against the door.

"I know, I know," said Connor, clipping the leash onto Sumo's collar. "Okay. Let's go."

Once he opened the door, Sumo jumped into the snow on the front lawn. Connor gave him a bit more room on the leash and watched him dig frantically through the snow.

"Do you want to dig?" Connor asked. Sumo lifted his head, licking the snow off his face. "Or walk?"

Sumo lunged towards the sidewalk. Connor followed.

He and Hank usually walked Sumo together. They would go at night after work, silently watching Sumo sniff everything in their path. This was the first time he'd paid much attention to the neighborhood during the day.

Families. Many of them. Some had nine and ten-year-old kids. There were signs for bus pickups and warnings for child crossings. Two families were building an igloo together, forming bricks with plastic tubs that used to hold diaper wipes. Someone tried to get Connor to join a snow fight, but he politely declined. A toddler waddled across a lawn, dressed in a coat that made him twice as wide. He clapped his hands, yelling about dogs. Connor slowed and told Sumo to sit so the boy could look at him.

"Thank you so much," the boy's mother said. She took a picture of the boy offering his mittened hand to Sumo. Her cheeks were bright pink. "He loves dogs."

"Me, too," said Connor. Sumo barked happily.

She glanced at the serial number on his jacket. "Do you live around here?"

Connor pointed vaguely in the direction of Hank's home. "That way."

"Bring this big boy around any time," she said, rubbing Sumo's back. "Maybe I'll buy some treats to lure him over."

Sumo's ears perked. She laughed.

Connor wondered if Hank had been friends with her, once. With any of them. Or if he hadn't. He wasn't sure which was worse. Either way, Hank had been alone in that house for three years, while children grew up all around him.

A horrible ache settled into Connor's internal systems. He let Sumo lick his hand, waiting for his diagnostics to stop spinning.

"Maybe I will," said Connor. It was difficult to speak. There was a clamp around his vocals. He felt like he was missing his thirium pump.

"Say goodbye to the dog, sweetie."

"Bye-bye," the boy said, waving. Sumo nosed at his face until he fell over, giggling.

They continued down the street, followed by laughter and snow.

*

Connor kicked the snow off his shoes before he opened the door. The house reeked of menthol. Sumo leaped inside and went straight for his water bowl, leaving damp prints on the floor. 

"Hey," said Hank. He was lying on the couch, watching something on television. A movie, Connor guessed. There was an orange-haired woman in a peculiar white outfit. "Good walk?"

"Yes," said Connor. He hung up the leash and glanced at the floor, wondering if he should mop that now or later. Sumo wandered through, leaving more prints. Later. "Did you sleep well?"

Hank grunted. Connor took that as an affirmative.

"Good," said Connor. He lingered in the hallway, unsure if Hank wanted his company or not, but then Hank tipped his head back and met his eyes. "Did you eat, too?"

"Yeah," said Hank, voice still hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Thanks."

Connor made sure his shoes were dry before he walked into the living room. He sat on the floor in front of the couch, near Hank's knees. There were cough drop wrappers on the floor. The bag was on Hank's stomach, next to a bottle of water.

"You're sick," said Connor. There was a lot of noise coming from the television. He ignored it. "Of course I'll take care of you."

A smile ghosted over Hank's face. He unwrapped another cough drop and sucked it into his mouth. "Not that." 

"You're my friend," said Connor, catching the cough drop wrapper before it touched the ground. He smoothed it across his palm. Menthol flooded past every other scent, even Hank's sweat. "I know when you want to be left alone."

"Yeah, you're good at that."

"Understanding body language and social cues are a core part of my programming. In my base code, the criminal analysis is secondary to socialization protocols. They improve constantly, especially on a one-to-one basis. The more time we spend together, I get better at understanding you and predicting your wants and needs."

Hank nudged the back of his head with the water bottle. "Just so you know, that's creepy."

"I thought I _was_ creepy," said Connor. He heard Hank snort. "I'm an android designed to investigate murders and interrogate suspects. I have custom-built, extensive facial recognition software that is thirty times more efficient than what the average police department uses. Oh, and I don't sleep."

"Yeah, you're pretty fucking creepy," Hank muttered, but he didn't sound angry at all. Delighted, maybe. He shifted, turning onto his side. His knee bumped against Connor's back. "Thanks, partner."

Connor glanced over his shoulder, watching Hank drink nearly half his water bottle. Still sick. Still coughing. Still—sad. Good days and bad days. Connor was trying to make more of the former.

"You're welcome," said Connor. He stopped ignoring the audio from the television. "What are we watching?"

"The Fifth Element."

"Is it a classic?" Connor asked. He could look it up and know before Hank even started forming words, but he liked hearing Hank talk.

"It is to me. Used to watch it a lot when I was a teenager. It's Bruce Willis's best movie."

"I thought that was Die Hard."

Hank pointed at the woman with orange hair. "Die Hard doesn't have Leeloo."

* * *

On Christmas morning, Connor sat in the living room with his present. He wondered if he should open it yet. Hank was still sleeping.

Part of gift-giving was seeing the receiver appreciate the gift. That was a common staple of gift traditions. He had experienced it himself when he gave Hank those gloves. _Aw, hell_ , Hank had said, but he put them on immediately. Connor could recall the joy that hurdled through him as easily as he could picture the tiny smile on Hank's face when Connor dropped the gloves in his lap.

But it was nearly eight-thirty. Hank likely wouldn't be up for another hour; he had spent most of the night coughing. He was half-asleep now, sprawled over the sheets with one arm dangling off the side of the bed.

"I'm impatient," said Connor. Sumo didn't reply. "I'm allowed to be, aren't I?" Still no answer. "Yes. Thank you, Sumo."

Connor untied the red bow. The paper fell away, exposing a cardboard box. It wasn't taped shut. He pushed the flaps aside, reaching inside.

Clothing.

Five shirts. Three long-sleeve, button-ups. Cotton. Two were solid colors (pale blue and black) and the last was a loud, yellow pattern. Floral. One long-sleeve, dark purple pullover. And on the bottom, one sweater. Thick, warm fabric. Dark green. There was a cartoon reindeer embroidered on the chest. Beneath, red and gold letters proclaimed _happy holidays_ in sloppy, uneven script.

Connor touched the sweater. He liked the way the fabric scratched between his fingers. Wool. Hank wasn't allergic, but several humans at the station were. This would have to be an at-home sweater. He set it aside and refolded everything else, placing them carefully back into the box, before unbuttoning his shirt.

The sweater fit loosely. It reminded him of the way Hank's coat draped over his frame. The sleeves were a little long, ending almost at his knuckles. Sumo opened one eye lazily, yawning.

"It's nice," Connor told him. From what he knew of fashion, this looked ridiculous. He loved it.

He wondered when Hank had purchased these. Not online. Connor would have remembered a package delivery. They were a rarity, since the postal service was still scrambling to keep everything in service after the majority of their android employees left or refused to work without pay. Hank must have visited a store one day while he was out buying lunch.

Connor curled his fingers, pulling the sleeves down his arms and over his hands. The movement bared his shoulders. The sight still startled him, sometimes; he was used to seeing nearly every part of his body covered. Polite society expected clothes, so he had been designed with business attire. His neck itched for a tie he hadn't worn in a week. After the shooting, he'd stopped wearing one every day, and hardly ever at home. Hank said it made him look less uptight.

He touched his frame, skimming his fingers down to where he'd been injured. Where Hank had pressed a layer of new skin into him. His fingerprints were still there. Connor covered them with his own.

It wasn't the same. Not at all. There was only the basic awareness of physical contact.

But if he—imagined—

Yes.

He visualized Hank's hands on him, pushing the sweater out of the way to touch his chest. Better. Much better. He traced the latches along his chest, guiding Hank's imaginary hands to them. Those fingerprints were still inside him, on his veins. Would he touch them again, if Connor asked? Probably not, but it was worth thinking about.

Hank's fingers, trembling. The back of his hand touching the inside of his frame. His palm on Connor's back. Poking at his hair, trying to smooth the loose curl. Hands on his shoulders, squeezing. His touch, his touch, his touch—

Connor held his cheek, remembering the way Hank's palm fit along his jaw. 

*

Two hours later, Hank still wasn't out of bed. Connor fetched the cough suppressant from the bathroom.

"Merry Christmas," Hank croaked. He was propped up on a stack of pillows, one knee bent under the blanket. When he saw Connor's sweater, he beamed.

Connor gestured at his sweater, tracing the uneven letters. " _Happy holidays_ , Hank."

"Yeah, yeah," said Hank. His body rocked with another cough. "Christ, I feel like shit."

"That's because you're sick," said Connor. He sat on the edge of the mattress—Hank had told him it was "fucking weird" and "really creepy" to watch him loom over the bed—and poured a full dose. It was cherry flavored. Hank hated it. "You should've called me."

Hank's face twisted. "Didn't wanna bother you."

"You're my partner, asshole," said Connor. He handed over the tiny plastic cup.

"Ugh," said Hank, but he drank it all in one swallow. He wiped his mouth, grimacing. "Can't believe this is _still_ the only thing you can take for coughs. And—"

"And it tastes the same as the medicine you took as a child, and it's still fucking terrible," said Connor. He'd heard this complaint before. Four times, to be precise. He picked up the glass of water on the bedside table and gave it to Hank. "And the common cold hasn't been cured yet. And neither has cancer."

"I'm an old man," Hank grumbled. He drank, swallowing audibly. "Let me bitch about healthcare."

"Do you need anything else? Food?"

"Nah."

"Okay," said Connor. He plucked at the hem of his sweater. "Thank you."

"Thought you might like something other than your CyberLife costume," said Hank. He straightened his leg and settled back into the pillows, tugging the blanket around his hips. "Do you like 'em?"

He did. The sweater was obviously a joke; bad holiday sweaters were an office tradition, in some places. Connor liked knowing that wearing it would amuse Hank. All the shirts were different colors, so he had a choice. The floral one looked a lot like some of the shirts in Hank's closet. Connor thought he might wear that one next.

"Very much," Connor answered. The smile slid back onto Hank's face.

"Sweater's a little big, but everything else should fit just fine. CyberLife sent a pamphlet about your model with you, so I know your dimensions."

"Thank you," said Connor again. He smoothed the sweater over his chest, feeling the fabric scratch across his palm. "I think this one is my favorite."

"It's godawful," said Hank. He poked the cartoon reindeer. "Fucking hideous."

"I love it," Connor told him. He watched Hank's fingers move along the reindeer, towards the cheerful letters. In his imagination, they delved deeper.

"Of course you do," said Hank, the words fading into a coughing fit. He slammed his fist into his chest, groaning. "Any news from the station?"

Connor shook his head.

" _Really_? Nothing at all? Not even a stabbing?"

"Detective Reed sprained his ankle in the parking lot yesterday," said Connor. Hank snorted. "I'm the only one who has been involved in a violent situation recently."

Hank glanced at Connor's shoulder. "You know, you're supposed to go to therapy for that. It's mandatory."

"Not for me," said Connor. He wasn't an official police employee. Or a human. And he wasn't sure why Hank would suggest therapy, since he refused to treat his own mental health. "CyberLife suggests a memory wipe after particularly violent incidents."

"Are you gonna do that?" Hank asked, looking alarmed. Connor shook his head. "Well, the DPD doesn't have a plastic shrink, so I guess you're stuck with me."

"I can't develop a drinking problem."

"Ha," said Hank dryly. In the living room, Sumo huffed. "Ha."

"Liquids go straight through me," said Connor. Straight through his mouth and into a waste containment unit inside his frame, which he had to empty manually. "I can't get drunk."

"Damn shame," said Hank. His eyes flicked towards Connor's shoulder again. "You still good?"

Connor nodded. Hank had asked him about his shoulder every day since the shooting. Sometimes twice.

"You know that's weird, right? Getting shot and then back on the job in an hour."

"Androids don't feel pain," said Connor. Unless they were designed to, of course, and he hadn't been. He didn't understand why Hank couldn't grasp this. "Would you like me to install a pain response module?"

Hank's lip curled, like he'd just smelled something foul. "Uh, _no_."

"They're not expensive," said Connor. They were actually cheaper than erotic modules, which said something about human psychology that Hank would likely be uncomfortable discussing. "Easy to incorporate into an existing model, too."

"Do you want to?" Hank asked. He hunched over his water and lowered his voice, looking at Connor with something that resembled concern. "Would that make you feel more—human?"

What an odd question. "I don't want to."

"Feel pain, or feel more human?"

"Both," said Connor. He didn't see the point in becoming more like a human. They shared traits and a general shape, but they were a different species. It made as much sense as wanting to be like a dog. "I like myself the way I am."

"That's good," said Hank. He drank the rest of the water, nearly spitting out the last mouthful when his chest shook with another cough. "This is gonna be a stay in bed kinda day."

Connor took the empty glass out of Hank's hand and stood. "Tell me when you get hungry. I'll make you something."

"Not soup."

"You can't keep anything else down, so it will be soup."

" _Fine_."

Connor leaned over and touched his forehead, checking his temperature. He felt Hank's eyelashes twitch against his hand.

"You're such a mother hen," Hank muttered. He flicked Connor's hand away. "There's really been nothing since last night?"

Their station had handled a few cases of domestic assault, but no murders. Connor said so, adding, "There hasn't been a murder in our district for three days."

"Huh," said Hank. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back into the pillows. "That's a goddamn Christmas miracle, Charlie Brown."

* * *

Hank's fever finally broke on New Year's Eve, around noon. He celebrated by going out to buy groceries and refused to let Connor drive him, even though the roads were terrible and it was starting to snow. It was late in the afternoon when he returned with frozen meals, a carton of eggs, and a bottle of bourbon.

"Forgot what day it is," Hank grumbled. He dropped the grocery bags onto the counter and started emptying their contents into the freezer. "Too many people."

Connor refilled Sumo's water and placed it on the floor, carefully angling it away from his food bowl. "Are you still feeling well?"

"Yeah," said Hank. He pulled a glass out of a cupboard and poured a generous amount of bourbon into it. "Told you I didn't need a doctor."

"Only because you have an android trained in basic medical care living with you," said Connor. Hank had spent most of the past week and a half in bed, sleeping. He probably would have remained sick and miserable for another week if Connor hadn't been here to cook his meals and keep him hydrated.

Hank raised his bourbon, tipping the glass towards Connor. "Thanks, nurse."

"You're welcome," said Connor. He checked the weather. It was still snowing, but it would stop within the hour and wouldn't pick up again until tomorrow afternoon. "I'm going to go shovel the driveway."

"It's fucking cold out!"

"I don't get cold," said Connor. He didn't even need to wear clothing. There was no part of his frame that polite society deemed unacceptable for the public eye.

"Leave it," said Hank. He walked towards the couch, bourbon bottle in his hand. "You've been doing shit for me all week. Just—relax, okay?"

Another thing Connor didn't need, technically. He always managed his energy usage to its full potential without damaging his productivity. Still, he followed Hank into the living room, saying, "I'm relaxing."

"Good," said Hank. He placed the bottle at his feet. "You need it."

Hank's face was flushed. From the drink and the cold, Connor guessed, but he wanted to be sure. He stood behind the couch and pressed his palm against Hank's forehead. Ninety-nine degrees. A slight fever, for a human, but nothing to worry about. He had learned that Hank tended to run hot.

"What's the verdict, doc?" Hank asked. He angled his glass to his mouth and took a sip without moving his head.

Connor kept his hand still, considering. "You don't have a fever."

"Coulda told you that," Hank muttered, tipping his head back to meet Connor's eyes. "Why d'you take my temperature with your hand, anyway? I know you can just look at me."

"It's more accurate that way," Connor answered. The lie slipped from his vocal systems the moment he thought of it. He had never lied to Hank before. It didn't feel particularly good. He removed his hand.

"Huh," said Hank. He looked at Connor, drumming his fingers along the edge of his glass. His eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

Connor disabled his facial responses and carefully crafted his response to be more casual. "I'm not."

"You _are_ ," said Hank, before Connor had even finished speaking. "This thing—"

He reached up with his free hand and tapped Connor's LED. Connor's physical sensors zeroed in on that simple touch. There was nothing on the LED itself, but he felt everything else. Hank's middle finger, gently tapping the plastic. The scratch of his nail against Connor's skin. The edge of his palm, bumping into his cheek. 

"It's red," said Hank triumphantly. "That only happens when you're freaking out about something."

He sounded so pleased with himself that Connor didn't even bother continuing his attempts at deception. "Okay. I'm lying."

"Knew it," Hank muttered. He was still touching Connor's face. Two fingers traced the skin around his LED. "You can take this out, you know. It's not legal yet, but I wouldn't stop you."

That was the first thing deviant androids tended to do. Connor didn't want to. People had always been uneasy around androids. If people thought he was hiding his nature, they wouldn't trust him. He wouldn't be able to work effectively for the DPD. Not to mention the possible legal ramifications if a suspect or a witness assumed they were dealing with a human detective, rather than an android.

"I shouldn't," said Connor, shaking his head. Hank's fingers followed. "Not yet."

Hank hummed. His fingers pressed delicately into Connor's temple, and then they were gone. He turned on the television and changed channels until he landed on a sports highlight show, which appeared to be a group of commentators analyzing ten seconds of actual footage from a game in between five minutes of advertisements.

"If you're gonna watch, sit," said Hank, patting the couch. "I told you, the looming thing—it's weird."

Connor sat. Hank slung his arm over the back of the couch and slouched deeper into the cushions.

For forty-five minutes, Connor thought about the way Hank's fingers had touched his skin. It wasn't very relaxing. If anything, it was incredibly distracting.

He gave into the memory. He disabled the audio from the television and the wind outside, listening only to Hank's breathing and occasional chuckle at a joke. Hank's fingerprints remained on his LED, on his temple, on his veins.

They were close, Connor realized. Not close enough to touch, except for Hank's arm near his shoulder. When Hank had helped him repair his frame, he had stood closer than this. He had reached into Connor's chest, so carefully, and left himself behind. Did Hank understand how much that touch meant? Did he know that when Connor idled, he thought of Hank's hands?

"I like touching you," said Connor. He felt Hank flinch. "That's why I take your temperature with my hand."

Hank blinked. He did it again, eyelids twitching. His lips parted. His throat worked, but he didn't swallow. He said, "Oh," the way he did when someone bumped into him or Sumo nosed at his hand in the morning.

"It's not the same as when you touch me," said Connor, remembering. He looked at his shoulders, his wrists, the marks on his veins. The feeling Hank's touch yielded was—exceptional. "But I like it."

Connor didn't have many opportunities to touch Hank, beyond helping him when he had too much to drink. Hank tended to shrink from touch when he was sober, unless he was the one initiating it. He preferred to greet someone with a nod than a handshake. He would step away if Connor stood too close. Sometimes, he flinched if Connor caught his attention with a touch rather than a word.

He missed being touched, Connor thought. Whenever Hank had embraced him, he did with his entire body. No hesitation. There were hidden marks on Connor's back and head where Hank had gripped him, holding him close to his chest.

"Oh," said Hank, softer this time. He lifted his bourbon to his mouth. "Do you…want to?"

Always. "Yes."

"Okay," said Hank. He rested his left arm on the side of the couch, still gripping his glass tightly.

Was that his way of giving permission? It was difficult to tell; Hank wasn't looking at him. Connor turned, angling his body towards Hank's. Their knees bumped. He studied Hank's face, trying to gather as much data as he could

Nerves. A low blood alcohol content; he'd only had a few sips, after all. Hesitation. Increased heart rate.

"May I?" Connor asked.

Nineteen seconds later, Hank glanced at him. His pulse beat visibly in his neck.

"Yeah," Hank murmured. "Yeah, you can."

Every part of Connor hummed eagerly, wanting.

He started with Hank's right arm. A light touch, at the inside of his elbow. The skin flinched under his fingers, even through the thick sweatshirt. His bicep flexed when Connor touched his shoulder. It would be better if the skin was bare, but Hank was already startled by every simple touch. Not now. Later, if Hank allowed it.

Hank's chest was next. Connor placed his palm at the very center, spreading his fingers. He knew every organ, every vein, every inch of every layer of skin and muscle within Hank's body. Every precise change in Hank's heartbeat. It was beating under his hand, faster.

Hank swallowed. His thighs shifted. He kept staring straight ahead.

Connor considered his choice—north, or south—and chose the former, sliding his palm up to Hank's neck. His pulse was stronger there, hammering in his throat. He dragged his fingers along it, watching Hank's breathing stumble. He wanted to bend down and press his tongue to the pulse, sucking, until he could feel the rhythm in his mouth. There was some sweat gathered there, along his collarbone. He could taste that. He could.

He didn't, though he yearned for it.

"Jesus," Hank whispered. He tipped his head back, gazing at the ceiling.

Connor cradled Hank's cheek in his palm, the way Hank had in the bathroom after fixing his frame. Gently, he pulled, guiding Hank's eyes towards him. His beard scraped into Connor's palm. It was a pleasant feeling, though it would feel even better against his cheek. He wondered if Hank would object if he—

Probably. Connor deleted that thought. He bent his fingers, gathering strands of hair between them.

"You like this," said Hank slowly. 

Connor nodded. He touched the skin around Hank's mouth with his thumb. Hank blinked, startled, but he didn't say anything. He leaned into Connor's hand—so slightly, so slowly, that Connor wasn't sure he was even aware that he was doing it.

"Do you?"

"I—" Hank stopped, his throat working. "I don't know."

"When you touch me, I can't concentrate," said Connor. He traced the shape of Hank's mouth with his fingers. Dry. His lips had been cracked all week. Neither of them could keep track of the lip balm. He wondered what Hank's mouth tasted like. "All I'm aware of is you and your hands."

Hank's eyes slid towards his own hands. Connor ached, remembering the veins and joint inside his chest. His wrist. His shoulders. His cheek. He wished Hank was touching him.

"When you stop, there's still your fingerprints," said Connor. The physical sensors on his wrist, where Hank had grabbed him in November, flared. One, two, three. "I can see them. Feel them."

"Do you," said Hank, his lips brushing against Connor's fingers. The contact aroused him. Connor knew before he sensed the change in Hank's body. "Do you like that, too?"

Connor nodded, pleased that Hank understood so quickly. "Very much."

"Why?"

"Because they're yours."

Hank tried to say something, but all that came out was a strangled noise. He looked down, swallowing. Hesitation, desire, fear—it was all on his face, easy to interpret. He always wore his emotions so openly.

"You're getting off on this," Hank whispered. His voice lifted at the end into a hesitant question.

"Oh, yes," said Connor, watching Hank's flush deepen. "I thought that was obvious."

Hank shrugged and shook his head at the same time, his body movements jerky and stiff. His fingers dug into the back of the couch.

"I desire you," said Connor. He returned to Hank's cheek, fitting his jawline into his palm. "I think about you all the time."

The skin beneath his hand was warm. Slightly damp. He dragged two fingers through the sweat on Hank's brow and pressed them down on his tongue, harder than necessary.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Hank rasped.

Connor—ignited—

With sensation, with _Hank_ , with Hank on his fingers and on his tongue and in his mouth and in him, forever, forever, forever. This was something he knew, now. He knew Hank's sweat, and it was _his_. He would keep the taste on his tongue forever, if he could. The component within his mouth sanitized after every use; he only had his memory.

Hank groaned.

Connor liked that sound. He liked that he caused it. He made Hank look at him like that, with heavy eyes and an open mouth. What other sounds could Hank make? He wanted to hear _everything_. Catalog them by their sound, his breath, the way his mouth parted.

He cradled Hank's face with both hands. The beard scraped into his palms. Hank was breathing heavily, warm air ghosting along Connor's thumbs. His eyes were closed. Connor could see the swell between his thighs.

"Hank," said Connor, desperately. He wanted—touch. A touch, from Hank. Anything. A hand, a finger, a knuckle. Any touch. "Touch me, please. _Please_."

He needed—

Hank, who wasn't looking at him. His entire body was stiff. With great effort, he kept his face horribly blank. He looked ready to leap away.

"Hank?" said Connor. He gathered his hands in his lap, waiting.

Nearly a minute passed before Hank slipped his arm off the back of the couch. He touched Connor's chest, pushing him away.

"This is a bad idea," said Hank, his voice still raw. He rested his elbows on his knees, gripping his bourbon with both hands.

Hank had rejected him before—his skills, his inquiries about Hank's personal life, his attempts at friendship. This was different. It was _awful_. Connor didn't like the way Hank's shoulders hunched tightly around his ears. Guilt tore through him, muddying everything it touched. His least favorite emotion, by far.

"A fucking bad one," said Hank.

Highly likely. They were partners, after all. _Don't shit where you eat_ , Hank would tell him. _Lieutenant, I can't perform either of those actions_ , Connor would say, and Hank might laugh or scoff or roll his eyes. There were several other reasons, too, but Connor didn't want to think about any of them. Not with the recent memory of Hank's face in his hands and the beard on his skin. He could still feel everything.

"I know I told you," said Hank, staring at the floor, "that you could—God." He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. "I fucked up."

No. Connor couldn't let him think that. "You didn't."

"I _did_ ," Hank snapped, louder than either of them expected. He flinched. Connor didn't. "So I'm stopping this. Okay?"

"Okay," said Connor. He didn't agree, but he understood. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Hank muttered, still not looking at Connor. He scrubbed his face, sighing. "Me, too."

"I can leave," Connor offered. It pained him to say so, but he didn't want to upset Hank any further. He couldn't. He watched Hank grab the bourbon and stand, clutching the neck between two fingers. "I'll talk to Captain Fowler tomorrow."

Hank looked back at him, frowning. "No, no. You're my partner. You're staying."

Connor didn't expect that. He was—grateful. Yes. Hank offered him a smile, the same one he gave at Chicken Feed, when he embraced Connor and asked him what he wanted to do next. Connor's relief faded into a deep ache.

"I'm going to bed," said Hank, even though it wasn't even six o'clock and he hadn't eaten dinner yet. "Can you let me sleep in tomorrow?"

As soon as Connor nodded, Hank left. The bedroom door closed.

Connor listened to the television, and did not remember.


	5. Chapter 5

January came and went.

Connor was dimly aware of time, one day folding into another. He continued to live and work with Hank, despite the memories that clung to every interaction. A particularly brutal double homicide—two young children—kept Hank deep in a bottle for three days, until they arrested the father for the crime. Two men, frequent customers of sleazier establishments than Eden Club, were found dead in their homes. A prominent red ice dealer drowned in the river, her hands and feet bound.

Humanity was a violent species. There was always work to be done.

They didn't talk about New Year's Eve.

Hank stopped patting Connor's shoulders and guiding him through a crowd with a hand on his back. He didn't nudge Connor with his elbow when he wanted his attention. He never poked at his hair, laughing when the curl bounced back. There was only physical contact when Hank was too intoxicated to stand, and even then, he hesitated before he allowed Connor to steer him away from the bar and into bed.

Connor missed those casual touches. He suspected that Hank was deeply ashamed of what they had done and, to a greater extent, that he had allowed anything to happen at all. He was not. He liked Hank. He enjoyed touching Hank, and he knew Hank did, too; he had seen the pleasure spreading through his body. But it was not that simple, apparently, and Connor didn't have enough experience with relationships and friendships and all the other ways humans associated with each other to understand why Hank was so distressed.

It wasn't until early February that he lost patience—with himself, mainly, for allowing this strained atmosphere to last for so long. He should have said something earlier, but he kept hesitating, not sure of what Hank's reaction would be. Fearing the worst.

"I'm sorry," said Connor. He sat in the passenger seat, listening to Hank murmur encouraging words to his car's heater. "When I touched you, I made you uncomfortable. That was inconsiderate of me."

There was a horribly strained silence. Connor counted the seconds.

"You didn't," said Hank, yanking the words out of his throat by the syllable. He rubbed his gloved hands together, shivering. "You're new at—uh, feelings. All that shit. It's okay."

"I hurt you," said Connor, remembering how Hank flinched away from him. "That's not okay."

"You _didn't_ ," Hank repeated. He put the car into reverse and eased onto the street. "Let's just blame this on your android puberty, or whatever, and move on. Forget everything."

Connor frowned. He didn't understand why Hank was willing to continue working—and living—with him if he wanted to ignore what had happened. Humans had memories, too. "Is it that simple?"

Hank glanced at him. He was gnawing on the inside of his cheek. "It can be."

"Oh," said Connor. He looked out the window, watching the houses disappear beyond his vision. He listened to the rumble of the engine, rather than Hank's heartbeat. "I didn't know."

"You okay with that?"

"I suppose I am," Connor answered. He heard Hank sigh.

It was difficult to put into words how much Hank meant to him. If he was an android, Connor could instantly share his memories so he would understand. How Hank despised him, early on, yet still put himself in front of Connor at the first sign of danger. The way Hank looked at him after Kamski's test. The embrace outside Chicken Feed. The fingers on his wrist and hands on his shoulders and fingerprints on his veins and skin. Hank would _know_.

Words were insufficient.

"You're important to me," said Connor. It wasn't enough. "I don't like upsetting you."

Hank lingered at a stop sign, staring at the empty streets. "You're…you're important to me, too." He stumbled slightly over the words. His eyes never left the windshield. "Best partner I've had. Best friend I've had in—Jesus, a long time. I don't—"

He cleared his throat and stomped on the gas, hard enough that Connor's seatbelt halted his frame.

"Don't wanna lose that."

Now it all made sense. Connor understood. He nodded. "I don't, either."

"If being around me is, you know, difficult for you, or—weird." Hank's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You can stay at the station. Get a different partner. You should do that, if you need to."

Did he? Connor doubted it. He recognized his own feelings, but they did not interfere with his work or everyday routine. He could ignore them; he just chose not to. He was more concerned about Hank. "I don't need to."

"Okay," said Hank, nodding. "We're good?"

"Yes."

"Great," said Hank. He glanced at Connor, one side of his mouth hooking into a genuine smile. One of Connor's favorites: wide, slightly crooked, straining his cheeks. Every part of Connor ached. "We're good."

* * *

Laws started changing. The first were in Michigan, of course, and then California and New York. Androids were expected to have the right to work freely and own property by June. The right to capitalism, Hank said, scowling. All of these changes had international consequences—particularly on ongoing conflicts with Russia and Canada—but Connor kept his focus on Detroit.

One thing, then the next. It added up.

Most of the people in charge at CyberLife had disappeared. Escaping the eventual lawsuits and arrests, Connor supposed. The general public wanted someone to officially pay for the various crimes inflicted on androids, and nobody wanted to fall on that particular sword. Kamski certainly hadn't. He had been one of the first to vanish. There were conspiracy theories about his possible death and android replicants, but Connor didn't investigate them too deeply. Unless Kamski was involved in a Detroit homicide, he didn't want to think about the man.

Hank stopped flinching. He leaned into Connor's frame when he was drunk. He patted Connor's shoulder after an investigation. He touched the back of Connor's neck, sometimes. Hesitantly. As though he was unsure he was allowed to. Connor always welcomed these touches, but did not act on them, no matter how much he longed for more. His affection for Hank became background information.

The make and model of every car on the street, and the ways Hank had touched him. Active warrants, and the sound Hank made when Connor tasted his sweat. The smell of cheap coffee, and Hank's pulse under Connor's fingers.

"Do you still," said Hank, squinting into the setting sun. Sumo trotted happily in front of them, pausing to sniff at the grass.

Connor glanced at him. Sumo strained at the leash, focused on a squirrel across the street.

"Never mind," Hank muttered. He shoved his hands inside his coat pockets. March weather was finally warm enough that he didn't have to wear long sleeves, but he usually did. He preferred this coat, with the thirium stains on the inside that he couldn't see.

Two seconds passed. Connor completed his interpretation of what Hank's question might have been.

"Yes," said Connor. Gently, he tugged on Sumo's leash, guiding him down the sidewalk.

Hank ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears were turning pink. "Huh."

Data, data, data, and the fingerprints on his veins.

* * *

On June 17th, Connor and Hank went to the scene of the first android murder in Detroit.

The victim, an AP-400 model, was found in a motel near the highway. It was on the bathroom floor, nude. The tile floor beneath its corpse was blue and sticky. Its entire blood supply was drained. All its limbs were gone. Several biocomponents—an audio processor, both optical units, hip joints, spinal column, thirium pump—were missing, too. The skin was starting to fade from its face, leaving splotchy patches of white plastic.

"Jesus," said Hank, wincing. Behind him, two crime scene investigators took pictures of the motel room. "Thanks for the warning, guys."

Connor stared at the corpse. He had seen dead bodies before, human and android. He had killed people. He understood the grief and guilt that came with death, but this was just an empty frame. A decaying face. A torso and a head, lying in a drying pool of thirium. The empty eye sockets stared at the ceiling.

He crouched next to the android and touched its head, searching.

"There's no name stored," said Connor. All that was left was basic information—serial number, gender, years in service. "He's been reset."

"Guess we'll call him AP-400," said Hank. He stayed in the doorway, hands on his hips. "That's a…household model, right?"

Connor nodded. He began a query in the background, trying to find the android's history. "Generally, they were used to assist disabled people with household tasks—and yes, that's what he did. He was purchased by Leslie Holst several years ago. She died last month. Pancreatic cancer. There's no other record of employment."

"And we don't know if he stuck around after the revolution. This Leslie have family?"

Connor searched. "Only child. Divorced, no children."

"Shit," said Hank. He squatted down next to Connor, grimacing when his knees protested. "Look, he's still got the LED. Guy at the front desk says he never saw an android come in."

The doors in this motel used a basic bolt and lock, and the windows had no locks at all. It was relatively easy to break in, but Connor doubted that was the case. Androids did not need shelter from the elements or a place to rest. They didn't need a bed, or a shower. If they needed silence, they could disable their audio processors.

"Considering the level of violence inflicted, I assume he was brought here," said Connor. The android's limbs had been forcibly torn from his body, judging by the blood splatter and the appearance of veins and joints on his shoulders and hips.

"Yeah, but he'd still have to walk into the room," Hank pointed out. "The front desk looks out at the parking lot."

"He could have utilized an accessory that I believe you humans call a 'hat.'"

"The fuck would I do without you," said Hank. He stood, knees cracking. "Hats. Of course. Alright, who wants an android's parts? It's not like there's much of a market for it. Plenty of android spaces give repairs away for free, and—shit, what's the name. That company CyberLife tried to buy up a couple years ago."

"Volk Industries," said Connor. A smaller android manufacturer, primarily known for education and gardening models. Now that CyberLife had stopped manufacturing altogether, Volk Industries had started increasing production on thirium and necessary biocomponents. "Historically, their prices are noticeably lower."

"So they can jack 'em up again later," Hank grumbled. He looked down at the AP-400 corpse, frowning. "I don't think an android did this. It's too messy. Look at the shoulders."

"I agree," said Connor, nodding. He stood, flicking dust particles off his trousers. "A human perpetrator is most likely."

"Yeah. You spot anything else in here?"

Besides the usual fingerprints and hair follicles, there was only the corpse and its blood. "No. I'm running queries on the biological data right now. I'll have a list of names for you within the hour."

Hank glanced over at his shoulder before he nudged the bathroom door shut. In a low voice, he asked, "You okay?"

Connor considered the question. The corpse at their feet. The blood.

"Not really," Connor admitted.

"Thought so," said Hank, his face softening. He touched Connor's back, turning him away from the AP-400. "Look, this kinda shit—it doesn't get any easier, okay?"

"Yes," said Connor, nodding. He leaned into Hank's hand. "I noticed."

"Be as angry or sad as you want, as long as you do your job. Just don't bottle it. That won't do you any good in the long run."

Connor smiled. He liked that Hank was concerned for him. Being cared for was a pleasant thing. No wonder humans liked it so much.

"Thank you," said Connor. Hank's hand was gone, but he still felt the pressure of each finger against his back. He missed the touch. "Let's talk to the neighbors."

"My favorite part," Hank grumbled. He tugged the door open and swept his hand through the air. "After you."

*

Questioning the other occupants of the motel provided little data.

"Didn't see him."

"Heard some shouting around midnight. Thought it was the TV."

"It's a fucking android, why do you care?"

The room had been rented for a week's stay by someone named Otto Crawford, six days ago. There were no working security cameras—"Keep meaning to replace them," said the manager sheepishly—and no employee remembered what Otto looked like. If that was even their real name. Since they had paid in cash, there was no way of knowing for certain.

The press gathered around the motel and followed them back to the station, shouting questions. Are you concerned at all about investigating the first android murder? Lieutenant Anderson, why have you been assigned another android case? Connor, is there any reason why you are the only RK-800 model known to the public? What will happen to the android's body? Connor, are you officially a detective within the DPD, or are you still a consultant?

"Fucking hell," said Hank, once they were safely inside. He rubbed at the back of his neck, groaning. There was air-conditioning in his car and the station, but he had started sweating the moment he stepped outside. "Vultures. All of 'em."

"They're doing their jobs," said Connor. He sat at his desk, watching Hank's fingers move over his throat. "Do you think I should give an interview? I receive requests daily."

Hank shrugged. His chest and neck were red and splotchy with heat. "Whatever you want. Ask the captain."

"Ask me what," said Fowler, as he stepped out of his office. He looked weary, as always. He clutched an iced coffee in one hand and two tablets in the other.

"About granting interview requests," Connor answered. There was a ninety-five percent chance Fowler would curse and tell him no.

"Fuck no," said Fowler. He lifted the coffee to his mouth and stopped, frowning. "You're not an official employee, but—"

"Please don't," Hank translated.

"Yeah. That."

Connor nodded. "I understand."

Fowler dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He didn't particularly like Connor, though he didn't despise him, either. Connor doubted they would be friends, but he was a good commander, and Hank trusted him. "How's the plastic case going?"

Not particularly well, in Connor's opinion, though it was still too early to tell. Scenes with little physical evidence were difficult to break through. They would know more once Connor's queries on Leslie Holst and Otto Crawford completed.

"It got called in a couple hours ago," said Hank. "You think we should have it all figured out by now?"

"I got the mayor, the commissioner, the press— _everyone_ riding my ass over this," Fowler snapped. "Don't fuck it up."

Hank gave him a lazy salute.

"Yes," said Connor, sitting up a little straighter. "I'm looking forward to solving this case."

Fowler glared at both of them. "Good. And you—" He gestured at Hank with his coffee. "You're coming over tonight for dinner. The wife misses you."

"Why?" Hank asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Fuck if I know," said Fowler, scowling. "You coming?"

As soon as Hank shrugged and agreed, Fowler stomped back to his office.

"Jesus," Hank muttered. He peered around his terminal. "Take the car, okay? I'll catch a taxi back home."

Connor nodded. He returned to his work.

While his background processors generated statistical probabilities of involvement for all the people who had left tissue samples in the motel, he contacted the androids at Eden Club and various CyberLife stores. If anyone tried to sell or donate anything that once belonged to the AP-400, he wanted to know. Fortunately, identifiers for android components were nearly impossible to forge.

Seventeen people. Four children—thirteen people. The level of strength required to dismember an android was not possible for young children. Five were from out of state. Connor passed the data along to Hank and began working on their victim's previous owner.

Leslie Holst had few friends in Detroit. The rest were scattered throughout the world: people she knew from college and online knitting communities, ex-partners, old family friends. She never mentioned her AP-400 in emails or social media. That wasn't entirely surprising; a lot of people were used to treating androids like any other appliance. Connor suspected their victim had been homeless and unemployed the moment Leslie died.

Unfortunately, there was no one named Otto Crawford in Michigan. Connor started a nation-wide query on his terminal and left it to run overnight. He could execute the search himself much faster, but he wouldn't be able to do anything without Hank's supervision. Legally, anyway, and he didn't want to damage the investigation.

The moment the captain and Hank were out of the precinct, Gavin Reed wandered over to Connor's desk.

"Good evening, Detective," said Connor politely. Reed hadn't forgiven Connor for what he did in the evidence room, or Fowler for pretending it hadn't happened at all. In workplace quarrels, it was best to be civil and kind. Smile and nod. "May I help you with something?"

"Your man left you," said Reed. He leaned against Connor's desk and folded his arms across his chest, barely hiding a sneer. "Guess you're eating alone tonight."

"I don't eat," said Connor. He softened his features and affected a gentle tone. "That generally requires a gastrointestinal tract and an anus, which I do not possess."

Feigning ignorance at innuendo or jokes was the easiest way to frustrate Reed, but he was equally annoyed by kindness. It always amused Hank to see Reed's face turning pinker and angrier with every word Connor said.

Reed's face twisted, as expected. A pity Hank couldn't see this.

"Do you think I should install one?" Connor asked. "A gastrointestinal tract, I mean. I don't require food for energy, but perhaps being able to digest food would improve my cooking."

"Bet Anderson would like that," said Reed, like it was an insult.

"He would," said Connor, nodding. "I'm already an excellent cook. Think of what I could do if I had a better understanding of human taste buds and digestion."

Reed looked at the ceiling. He said, "Fucking," and then he was gone, as though he had never been there.

Connor ignored him and updated the AP-400 file.

*

At home, Connor watched the evening news with Sumo snoozing in his lap. Android laws, Markus's latest speech, the assumed assassination of three CyberLife engineers. Nothing Connor didn't already know. He flicked through channels absent-mindedly, listening to the police radio in the background. A documentary about wheat farming. Music videos. Stand-up comedy. Children's cartoon.

Sumo knew Hank was home before Connor did, which was a surprise. He lifted his head, ears cocked towards the street. Connor strained his inputs, listening to traffic and nearby people until he pulled Hank's heartbeat out of the wind. He was walking up to the front door.

Immediately, Sumo leaped off the couch and sat at Connor's feet. His tail wagged.

Hank tugged the door open. He was sober—another surprise. He mumbled a greeting as he kicked off his shoes.

"Hello," said Connor. He scratched Sumo's ears.

Hank eyed them both. "Did you let him on the couch?"

"Yes," Connor admitted. He swept his hand over the couch, brushing Sumo's hair onto the floor. "Sorry."

"It's okay. When he was a puppy, he'd bite and scratch the cushions, so we kept him off everything. As long as he doesn't do that, it's fine."

Hank walked into the kitchen, towards his liquor. Connor saw his body relax when he spotted the whiskey bottle.

"How was dinner?"

"Fine," Hank mumbled. He took a glass out of the cupboard and peered at it, muttering to himself. He washed it out in the sink, saying, "We were good friends, while back. Now he's my boss. It's fucking weird."

Connor stood, following Hank into the kitchen. He had the feeling that Hank needed to talk, even though he didn't particularly want to. "How so?"

"Well," said Hank, as he poured far too much liquor into the glass, "I woulda been fired a _long_ time ago, if someone else was in charge. Before—you." His voice changed. Softer. Connor ached. "I barely worked forty—shit, even thirty hours a week. I think he only kept me on 'cause he felt sorry for me."

"Or because you're friends," Connor suggested. "And he wanted to help you."

Hank made a high-pitched sound as he swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. It took Connor a moment to recognize the laughter.

"Yeah," said Hank bitterly. He sat at the kitchen table, eyes on his glass. "Yeah, sure."

Connor took the opposite seat. Hank watched him.

"Staying up with me?"

"Of course," said Connor, because he liked watching a smile spread over Hank's face.

Hank drank.

He talked about meeting Captain Fowler. The Red Ice Task Force. His first partner. The scar on his elbow—not from a knife, as Connor had assumed, but a jagged piece of metal on the boat where they found the ton of red ice. His teenage band. His last partner. The first and last time he considered suicide.

Hank continued to drink, and drink, and drink, until he was slurring and nearly sick. He swayed in his chair, breathing through his nose. He didn't protest when Connor gripped him under his arms and pulled, heaving him out the chair. His head lolled on his shoulders. He stared at the kitchen floor, eyes unfocused.

"Can't sleep," Hank mumbled, pointing at his empty glass. "Without. Yeah. I can't."

"I know," said Connor, looping Hank's left arm over his shoulder. Hank grunted. "This way. Come on."

In the hallway, Hank stopped. Connor did, too, inspecting Hank's stomach and throat, but he wasn't going to be sick. Hank was turning, so slowly. His eyes were low, focused on Connor's chest. His breathing was erratic. He leaned closer, resting his forehead against Connor's temple.

An embrace—almost. Hank was pressed against his side, shoulders hunched. Connor brushed his hand over Hank's scalp and back, fitting his fingers over his ribs. Comfort. He could do that. He made soothing noises, trying to ignore the way his LED spun. It spat red flashes into the dark.

Hank tucked his face into Connor's neck, just below his jaw. He murmured Connor's name. His breath hitched in his throat. His mouth was slightly open, leaving damp marks on Connor's throat.

Connor froze.

"This is what you wanted, right," Hank slurred, leaning closer until his right arm bumped into Connor's frame. He slid his fingers under Connor's shirt. "You said—"

Connor remembered: the way Hank groaned, Hank's beard against his palms, the frantic need for contact. He was—on the couch, begging Hank to touch him, and tasting Hank's sweat, and touching Hank's chest, watching his heartbeat—all while Hank touched him and breathed garbled words into his neck. 

"—please," Hank finished, his lips moving over Connor's throat. He gripped Connor's hip, fingers slipping over the plastic.

He was extremely drunk. Each word bumped into the next, like his tongue was too thick to speak clearly. He was sweating, through his shirt and into Connor's. His fingers kept moving over Connor's abdomen, his hip.

Connor couldn't focus. He reminded himself how guilt felt and tried again, but Hank—Hank kept _touching_ him—

Hank pressed his fingers into Connor's frame, leaving fuller prints. "D'you still like that?"

Yes, yes, yes.

"I do," said Hank, rubbing his fingers in small circles. He kissed Connor's neck, almost absently. "I really do. I shouldn't, 'cause you're all. New. And I'm not." He drew his hand away to pat his stomach, laughing. "But you look—Jesus, you look good. And from this?"

"Hank," Connor tried. He sounded strained, gasping for air he didn't need. "Hank—"

"Just this," said Hank, gripping Connor's hip. "An' you look like we're fucking. Is that what you wanted? You said you—"

Hank's cheek was in his palm, beard scratching against his skin. _I desire you._ Sweat on his tongue, Hank's groan ringing in his audio inputs. _I think about you all the time._ He couldn't talk. He was trapped, under memories and Hank's touch and—too much—

When he was aware of himself again, Hank had nudged further into his neck.

"I don't know," Hank mumbled, sighing. His shoulders slumped. "What you want, from me. Or. How I can even. If you did."

Connor parsed the garbled sentence fragments, attempting to understand what Hank was saying. He didn't know what he wanted, either. He had an instinctual response to Hank's touch—he liked it, always—and that was it. There was no plan for what came next, or how that might map to something Hank was more familiar with.

"I think about it," said Hank, thumbing at Connor's belt. He reached lower, groping his thigh. "Sometimes."

Connor thought of Hank's bed, and the sheets, and the semen stains that hadn't been there since the first week Connor moved in. Old. Infrequent. Hank rarely masturbated, and now that Connor lived here, he always did so in the shower. Perhaps he remembered that Connor could see everything and was too embarrassed. Humans often were, about sex.

"Oh," said Connor, so Hank would know he understood the implication.

"Watched some videos," said Hank, frowning. "They were fucking weird."

Interesting. Connor wondered if they had watched the same pornography. Given the amount of data he was able to process per second—and the sheer volume of media he had consumed this year—it was highly likely.

"C'mere," said Hank. His hand returned to Connor's hip, pressing harder into the plastic.

"You've had a lot to drink," said Connor. It was far too late to mention this. Guilt settled in again, spiraling from Hank's touch.

Hank huffed. "So?"

Connor let go of Hank's wrist and reached down, prying Hank's fingers off his hip. His physical sensors howled, desperate for the missing touch. He wished he could disable them entirely. He'd tried that, once, but they always came back.

Hank didn't move. His head hung low, chin digging into his collarbone. Connor ignored the jumbled mess of fingerprints all over his frame.

"Connor," Hank croaked. He lifted his head, lips brushing over Connor's jaw. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."

He sounded so defeated. Something gnawed at Connor, scraping under his skin.

"Sleeping," said Connor, as gently as he could. He tugged on Hank's shoulder, guiding him towards the bedroom. "Don't worry. You won't remember this in the morning."

"I know," Hank muttered. "'s why I'm talking. Perks of being a drunk."

He collapsed onto the bed, groaning. Connor pulled the sheets up, since Hank couldn't sleep without something covering his legs. He searched Hank's body, checking in on the contents of his stomach and how much alcohol remained in his system. It would be a rough morning. There was still bacon and eggs in the fridge; he could make Hank an extra greasy breakfast.

"I wanted to tell you," said Hank, his voice muffled by the pillow. "And I did. I can't. But, I do. I'm—" He flopped onto his side and curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his chest. "I'm sorry."

Connor pushed the hair off Hank's forehead before he arranged him in the recovery position. Just in case.

"I'm not," Connor told him, as gently as he could. He heard a sharp exhale. "Do you want me to stay?"

Hank shook his head.

"Okay. Go to sleep."

Connor lingered by the bed until Hank obeyed. It only took a minute before his breathing evened out. He watched for another minute, listening to Hank's breathing, before he returned to the couch.

His throat was still damp.

Hank's mouth was on his neck and his hand was on Connor's side, digging into his frame. Pulling him closer. He could smell Hank's breath on him—nearly taste it. Even now, alone, it was too much. He covered his face with his hands. Hank did that when he was overwhelmed or tired.

It didn't help. Why did humans do this? It accomplished nothing.

Too much, too much—

"Shit," said Connor. He touched what remained of Hank's saliva and brought it to his mouth.

It tasted as he remembered, with hints of whiskey instead of bourbon. The fingerprints on his hip throbbed. He brought his hand to his mouth again, seeking whatever traces of Hank he find.


	6. Chapter 6

There were no humans within a block of Eden Club. After Markus's revolution, many androids came here for repairs, help, or just a safe place to stay, and the humans started to leave. Plunging real estate prices, not wanting to deal with the protestors outside the club, or possibly threats of violence—all of it contributed to the biggest android housing complex in Detroit. Compared to human neighborhoods, it wasn't much, but Connor liked watching it grow. He made trips here a couple times a month, checking in on everyone. Fowler wanted him to keep in contact with the various android shelters, so they could share information and hopefully prevent any more violence.

Be the friendly face of android-human cooperation, Fowler said. Connor was pleased to have that role.

Connor exited the taxi—a human one, which hadn't been popular in the city for at least a decade—and peered down the street, where Eden Club's sign glinted brightly in the distance. Vehicles weren't allowed past this point, except for delivery trucks.

"Stay safe, man," the driver said. "I got chased by plastics the last time I drove here."

Connor tapped his LED. "I'll be fine."

That made the driver laugh as he pulled away. Connor headed down the street.

As he approached Eden Club, he received the standard automated message from the androids inside—instructions for medical emergencies, purchasing replacement limbs and biocomponents, the blood stock status. He ignored it, pushing open the door with his shoulder.

The entrance had been repurposed into a waiting room, of sorts. The glass cases and bright lights were gone, replaced with blank walls and benches or chairs. There was a female household model sitting on a bench near the front door, holding one of her legs in her lap. A human woman sat next to her, showing her something on her phone. Neither appeared to be in any distress. Connor nodded at both of them and continued forward.

The main room was lined with boxes of biocomponents, body parts, and thirium. Most of it came from the club's storage, but lately, most were taken from CyberLife warehouses or donated from human homes. This was probably the best place in Detroit to get repairs, if an android wasn't capable of doing it themselves. Many androids had come here in the first weeks of the new year, seeking shelter.

"Figured that was you, freckles," said an HR-400 model. He was straightening a stack of boxes. His clothing—sneakers, shorts, a yellow shirt decorated with pineapples in sunglasses—were bright and garish, standing out in a dull room. "No one else ignores our instructions like that."

"I've heard it enough times," said Connor. _Inform us of your model number, reason for visit, and thirium levels before entering Eden Club._ "What's your name this time?"

"Michael," the HR-400 said. Like most of the models who used to work here, he hadn't been given a name. He couldn't decide on one, either, so it changed frequently. "I like it. I think I'm gonna stick with this one."

That was the same thing he said that about Harrison, and Anthony, and Tobias. "How is everything here?"

"Same as it always is," Michael answered, shrugging. He hefted a box onto his shoulder and placed it on top of another, carefully sliding it against the wall. "Everyone needs blood. Bunch of folks from New York arrived this morning, so we're running out of space. Not like we need it, but our human visitors get uncomfortable. Speaking of—where's your partner?"

"At work," Connor answered. Hank had joined him on previous trips to Eden Club or CyberLife stores, but they had learned that most androids were comfortable speaking to just Connor. "I'll send him your regards."

"My _regards_ ," Michael repeated, laughing. He palmed his groin. "That man paid for half an hour of my time and never got it. He must be miserable."

"He weeps at night," said Connor. That sent another wave of laughter through Michael. "Have you heard anything about our AP-400?"

Michael shook his head. He picked up a box of left hands and slotted it against the wall. "We're still not accepting donations."

"I didn't realize you'd stopped."

"Yeah. Unless they come from someone we trust, we're only taking sealed packages."

Connor frowned. Something must have happened. "Why?"

Michael shrugged. He didn't have an LED anymore, but Connor could read him just as easily.

"I'll find out sooner or later," said Connor, scanning Michael's stress levels, "so you might as well save me the time."

"Fine," said Michael. He rolled his eyes, which was such a distinctly human gesture that Connor was startled by it. "This guy—he donated a bunch of old thirium pumps that had some shitty code hacked into 'em. They would break down randomly. And no, I'm not telling you who did it. It's been taken care of."

"Please don't imply murder where I can hear it."

Michael's stress skipped up to sixty percent. "Why? You can't arrest me."

"My partner can, though."

"The guy's not dead. Just scared," said Michael. Connor studied him carefully, but he appeared to be telling the truth. "He won't try anything like that again. Pretty sure, anyway."

"I hope so," said Connor. He watched Michael lift another box. "Anything I can help with?"

Michael nodded at a nearby door. "There's a room full of second-hand opticals to test, if you've got the time."

"I do," said Connor. He always planned his trips to Eden Club with enough time to return to the station and back up the day's work before Hank took Sumo for his evening walk. That was his favorite part of the day.

"Great, thanks," Michael said. He led Connor into the room, adding, "You analyze shit much quicker than I do, so this'll go by faster."

Like the main room, the private room's walls were lined with boxes. There was a table in the center of the room—the bed was gone, of course—and underneath, a garbage bag filled with loose optical units.

"Just do a basic diagnostic," said Michael, heaving a box onto the table and turning it over. He tossed the empty box over his shoulder. "Check for anything new or broken. If there's nothing wrong, note the serial number and put it in the bag. I'm keeping track of where we got everything, so don't worry about that."

Connor picked up an optical unit, scanning for anything out of the ordinary.

They worked in silence. Many of the components were malfunctioning. Connor suspected they had come from junkyards or CyberLife workshops. Some could be repaired, but that required skills that Connor—and many of the androids living here—did not possess. Replacing biocomponents was one thing; engineering was another.

Outside, two WD-500 models were escorted to a private room for repairs. They were both leaking thirium. Connor could smell it.

"How many of you are still living here?" Connor asked. He was aware of one hundred and seventy-six androids in this building, but not all of them were former Eden Club employees.

"Twenty-three. A few moved to Canada last week. They couldn't stand being here anymore."

"I understand," said Connor. Every android he had met that was designed for human pleasure had not enjoyed the experience. Since December, at least one HR-400 or WR-400 model had left Eden Club each month. "Does being here bother you?"

Michael took a second to consider the question. He stared at the optical units.

"No," said Michael, finally. He tossed the component into the garbage bag. "I don't have fond memories of this place, but I like helping."

That was good to hear. Connor liked Michael. He was funny, always willing to offer assistance, and pleasant to speak to. If he left Detroit, Connor would miss him.

"Besides, I owe your partner some time," Michael added. Instead of transmitting his amusement over their shared network, he grinned. His teeth were very white. "Is he ever coming back here?"

"I doubt it. You called him my sugar daddy."

Hank had cursed a blue streak, though he seemed more embarrassed than upset. Connor thought this was because the term highlighted the assumed age difference, which he was still uncomfortable with, or he didn't like someone implying a relationship. Likely the former. He still called Connor an infant when he was grumpy, and he frequently made references to his age, even though he was only in his early fifties.

"He paid for a couple bags of blood after I told him they were free," said Michael, still grinning. "And he fussed over your frame."

"Because I'd been shot," Connor protested.

"He spends his money on you, puts you up in his home, buys you clothes…"

" _Sugar daddy_ implies there is a sexual component to our relationship," said Connor. He thought of last week, and Hank's mouth on his throat. March, and his fingers at the base of Connor's neck, curling in his hair. New Year's Eve, and the way he groaned when Connor tasted his sweat. "Which is not present."

Michael picked up another optical unit and immediately tossed it into the garbage. "What a pity."

It was. Connor thought of last week, and Hank's hungover mumbling in the morning, apologizing for whatever he might have said or did and _Jesus_ , Connor, close the shades. He ran another diagnostic on the component in his hand.

"Oh, shit," said Michael, prodding at Connor's local network. "You're actually disappointed."

"Yes."

"Because your human wants to fuck you? Or because he doesn't."

"It's complicated," said Connor. He shut down all external transmissions, so Michael wouldn't be able to access anything else. He had grown too careless with his security after working alongside humans for so long. They couldn't share data this freely without vocalizing it. "I hope that doesn't bother you."

"I was made for sex," said Michael. He emptied another box of optical units over the table. "I'm not exactly a prude."

One of the components rolled near the edge. Michael reached over the table and grabbed it before it fell.

Connor watched, studying his features. Both of them had been designed to be pleasing to the human eye, though Connor was meant to be comforting rather than tempting. Michael had classically masculine features: a strong jawline and brow, toned musculature, sharp eyes. Handsome, in the way his sister models were full of grace. He could see similarities in Hank's face, particularly the brows, but that was not the source of his affection for Hank. Was it supposed to be?

"Go on," said Michael, gesturing at him. "I can see you working. Ask."

Connor nodded, grateful for the opportunity. "Do you find humans aesthetically pleasing?"

Michael's eyebrows shot up. "Oh! Thought you were gonna ask something else. Uh, some. Not many."

"What about androids?"

"More than humans. They look like us, but we're different. I like us better."

"I see," said Connor, considering.

Nearly all android models were designed to be attractive. Markus, for example, was beautiful in the way that statues were. He didn't want to embrace Markus. The thought of Markus's hands on him didn't interest him the way Hank's did. He supposed general conversation would be better with an android, since they could think at the same pace, but that was the only advantage he found.

"Do you enjoy being touched?" Connor asked. Except for Hank, he didn't have any experience with touch. There was violence, of course, but that didn't thrill him the way Hank's fingers did.

Michael stared. "Are you hitting on me?"

"Unintentionally," said Connor. He ignored the optical units in favor of their conversation. "I'm trying to understand—"

"Why you wanna bend your partner over?"

Connor suspected that Michael meant to shock or offend him, but he had landed on Connor's main inquiry. "Yes. I like touching him. Being touched by him. I like—him, in general. His face. His body. His smell. His voice. Everything. I don't know why."

"Because you're attracted to him," said Michael, with a patient tone that Connor recognized. He'd used it in interrogations. "That's, like, basic shit. See a guy you like and get a boner. Well—" His eyes flicked towards Connor's groin. "You know. Whatever."

"I understand that, but I don't feel this way about anyone else."

"Sounds obsessive, to be honest."

"Probably," Connor admitted. A certain level of fixation was not healthy, and he had crossed that threshold long ago. He couldn't stop thinking about Hank this way.

"I've touched you," said Michael, which was true. He liked poking at Connor's freckles, teasing him about all the engineers who spent their work days deciding where to put them. Sometimes, he greeted Connor with an embrace or a kiss on the cheek. "Do you like that?"

"It's…fine," Connor answered. The feeling was not as muted as it was when he touched himself, which was an improvement. He was aware of the touch, and he enjoyed it, but Michael's touch didn't stimulate everything the way Hank did.

Michael threw an optical unit in the garbage, snorting. "Wow. Thanks."

"It's not bad," said Connor hastily, not wanting to offend. "Just different. With Hank, I can't concentrate on anything else. I don't want to."

"Aw," said Michael, covering his thirium pump with his hand. He cocked his head to the side, wiggling his fingers. "Hey, why don't you just show me?"

Sharing immense amounts of data within seconds was certainly a benefit to speaking with another android. Connor placed his wrist in Michael's hand, transferring everything he felt for and remembered about Hank.

Michael jolted, gripping Connor's wrist tighter. "Oh. Oh, hell, this is a lot."

"Yes."

"You've got it _bad_ , freckles."

"Yes," said Connor, affecting a sigh. "I know."

"Well, shit," said Michael, letting go of Connor's hand. He picked up another optical unit. "Good luck with all that."

*

Connor didn't get home until ten. Bad traffic kept him confined to a taxi, staring at headlights instead of the night sky. It was difficult to see the stars here. In Amanda's garden, he'd been able to see every constellation clearly, since all CyberLife simulations included the stars. He missed them.

"Hey," said Hank, as soon as Connor opened the door. He was at the sink, scrubbing at a frying pan.

Connor stood in the hallway, staring. Hank was still in his work clothes. Barefoot. Unbuttoned shirt. His undershirt was splattered with water and dish soap. He smelled like garlic chicken and salad dressing, and nicotine, even though he hadn't smoked regularly since April. He looked soft and tired, weary from a long morning of press and an afternoon of alibi checks. There was a half-empty beer on the kitchen table and a single bottle cap on the counter. 

"Welcome home," said Hank, and Connor wanted.

The sentiment poured over him, leaving his frame itching for contact. He wanted to close the gap between them and taste the sweat gathered around Hank's neck, or—press their bodies together, and feel Hank breathe against his frame. He wanted Hank to tip his chin up and kiss him and taste him and lick him and _know_ him. He wanted the simple pleasure of fresh fingerprints on his frame. He wanted to bury himself in sensation until he was drowning in it, blind and overwhelmed.

_You've got it bad, freckles._

"Hello," said Connor. He took off his jacket and hung it up on the hook by the door.

"How was Eden Club? Tobias still hanging around there?"

"Michael," Connor corrected. Hank repeated the name under his breath and bent over the sink, scrubbing violently at one side of the pan. "It was fine. And yes, he is. He sends his regards."

Hank turned on the faucet, washing suds down the drain. He peered closer at the pan. "Goddamnit, I always miss this spot."

Connor walked into the kitchen, his shoes clicking too loudly against the floor. He disabled audio that didn't come from Hank and leaned against the counter, watching Hank clean. Over the muted slide of the sponge over the pan, there was Hank's breath and Hank's pulse and Hank, Hank, Hank—

"Nothing from our AP-400 has turned up yet," said Connor. His skin was too tight. Hank's fingerprints felt like a brand, warming all over his frame. "Eden Club isn't accepting donations anymore, because someone gave them hacked parts. I think we should keep an ear to the ground for similar cases. People did that before the laws changed, so of course they would do it now, too. And—"

"Hey, hey," said Hank, holding up his left hand. Soap dripped off the edge of his palm into the sink. He wiped his hand on his shirt. "Relax, would you?"

He reached into the empty air, fingers curling around nothing. His breath stuttered in his chest. He touched Connor's tie, gripping the knot with three fingers. Connor stilled, watching Hank tug the knot from side to side until it was loose.

"You're not working now," said Hank. He reached behind the knot, slowly pulling out the long end of the tie. His fingers rubbed over Connor's throat. He continued to loosen the tie, until the fabric dangled from both sides of Connor's collar.

Connor couldn't move. How was Hank able to touch him like this and not see how it affected him?

"You're at home," said Hank, pulling gently on the tie. He looped the other end around Connor's neck and tossed the tie onto the counter. Connor's frame whined at the loss of contact. "So relax, okay?"

"I'm home," said Connor. His voice sounded so far away. "I'm relaxed."

Hank's touch returned. He ran his fingers under Connor's collar, pushing and twisting the fabric until Connor looked somewhat disheveled.

"There," said Hank quietly. He thumbed the top button of Connor's shirt, unfastening it. "Relaxed."

His hand remained, flat against Connor's chest. His fingertips were warm, and Connor still wanted.

For six months, Hank had been aware of Connor's feelings. He appeared interested—the way he leaned into Connor's touch on New Year's suggested that, and his drunken ramblings last week confirmed it—but hesitant. _Don't wanna lose that_. Guilty. _I fucked up_. Anxious. _I don't know what you want._

Back in December, Connor hadn't possessed the vocabulary to know how he felt and what he needed. He still didn't, really—he needed far more data to make educated decisions—but now, he knew he had spent enough time stewing in his own memories. He imagined another day of touch, of Hank wanting something from him and being too afraid or ashamed to say it without alcohol, of old fingerprints and Hank's saliva in his waste tank because he didn't want to throw it away yet. It left him aching.

"Don't stop," said Connor. He covered Hank's hand with both of his, holding that warmth against his frame. The tip of his index finger barely touched Connor's skin. He yearned for more.

Hank glanced at his LED. He swallowed, eyes darting away from Connor's face.

"It's because you're touching me," said Connor quickly. He could see the tiny red circle in Hank's eyes. "I like it, I want you to, I _need_ —please, Hank. Please, please."

He was babbling, unable to control his vocals. He clamped his mouth shut and hung his head, pressing his lips to Hank's fingers. There was soap and water and his meal and Sumo's scent and cigarettes and lighter fluid and night air and—

"Connor," Hank murmured, so gently. He dropped the sponge and wiped his hand on his jeans. "What do you—I mean, do I—"

"Please," Connor begged, again. He couldn't say anything else.

"Just talk to me," said Hank. He stepped closer, keeping one of his feet planted between Connor's. His hand twitched, fingers curling over Connor's chest. "Tell me what to do."

Connor tipped his head back, dizzy with greed. He covered Hank's hand with his, pushing their joined fingers up his throat. Five fingerprints covered Connor's chest and his neck and his jaw—and they were his, to remember and feel and know.

"Touch me," said Connor, holding Hank's left hand against his cheek. "Like this."

Hank's fingers were flat against his cheek, holding his jaw securely in his palm. Connor closed his eyes, disabling any visual input. Only physical sensations. Every loop and whorl in Hank's fingerprints.

His world narrowed to Hank, Hank, Hank.

"Yes," said Connor. His limbs were unsteady. Before they could start blaring warnings, he gripped the counter with both hands for balance. He ached for Hank's skin under his fingers again, but he was already so overwhelmed by physical contact. "Yes—like this."

"Jesus," Hank murmured, pulse spiking. He fit his other hand over Connor's hip. "Are you…?"

"Aroused? Yes."

Hank's response was a choked, "Oh."

Connor leaned to the side, seeking more of Hank's touch. He felt the fingers twitch. Hank's heartbeat thumped, banging against Connor's audio inputs.

"How does this work for you?" Hank whispered. "Just your face, or is it—me?"

He said the last part so quietly that Connor had to replay the last few seconds of audio to make sure he heard correctly. "Anywhere on my body. Always you."

"Anywhere," Hank repeated, rubbing his thumb over Connor's cheekbone. He left rough marks on the skin. "You'd get like this if I touched your elbow or something?"

"Oh, definitely," Connor answered. He heard Hank chuckle. "This way—it's intimate. I like it."

Hank bowed his head, pressing their foreheads together. Something cracked inside of Connor, spilling warmth and joy through his frame.

"I block out everything else," said Connor. He wasn't enunciating clearly; his vocal systems were losing functionality. He didn't care. Hank was _touching_ him. He ignored the warnings and went on, "All the audio, visual, background data. Only you. That's all I want."

Hank sucked in a quick breath. He held Connor's hip tighter, fingers digging into the frame.

"You, touching me," Connor slurred. He didn't sound like himself. Had he mimicked someone else's voice by mistake? "Looking at me. Your smell. Everything. It feels—Hank." He moaned the name, his frame shuddering. "It feels _so_ good."

Hank murmured his name hoarsely, like he'd just woken up from a long night. He stumbled closer, pinning Connor into the counter. There was an erection pressed against Connor's hip, and—Connor did that. He made Hank's hand tremble against his face, made him bite his lip, made him flush and curse, made him hard. Glee radiated from his frame like another layer of skin. He pushed his thigh between Hank's legs, grinning.

They stayed like that for—time. Some time. A few minutes? Connor wasn't keeping track. He didn't care. It was easier to think, now that Hank was touching him, and it was all he wanted to focus on.

Hank shifted his weight, rocking into Connor's thigh. "How long will you be like this?"

Forever, forever, forever—

"As long as I want," Connor answered. He dipped his head further into Hank's hand, which was warm and solid and his. "Am I boring you?"

Laughter shook through Hank's body and into Connor's frame. He took his hand off Connor's hip to grip himself through his jeans, adjusting. "Not at all." 

Connor opened his eyes and immediately closed them, overwhelmed by light. A second later, he attempted again, slower this time to allow his optical units to adapt. Hank's face was right there, flushed and sweaty. Eyes dark. He knew all of this, because he always sensed changes in Hank's body, but seeing it was spectacular. He hummed, arching his frame into Hank's body.

They were so close. Hank exhaled warm air onto his face, his mouth slightly open. Damp. What did his mouth taste like? There were no physical sensors on Connor's lips or inside his mouth, but he was still curious.

"May I kiss you?" Connor asked. Requesting permission seemed the polite thing to do, given Hank's general disgust with his mouth's internal components. "My mouth is clean, I promise. The component automatically sanitizes after each use."

Hank showed no clear signs of discomfort or reluctance. He nodded, bumping their noses together. He closed his eyes. His left hand shifted, tilting Connor's chin up so their mouths met neatly. It was a soft, tender kiss, and it was Connor's first, and he loved it. The taste, the way Hank's beard scratched his skin, how Hank sighed against his mouth and relaxed into the kiss.

Would this be better if he could produce saliva—or, at least, the android equivalent? There were biocomponents for that. Would they interfere with his oral scanner?

"—move this over to the couch," Hank was saying. His voice was lower. Rougher. Connor wanted to immerse himself in the sound. "It's more comfortable."

The couch. Connor had several ideas about that. He had spent so many nights on that couch, recalling Hank's touch. There were years of fantasies in his archives. He let go of the counter and reached for Hank's shirt, pushing the fabric away from his shoulders.

"That's a yes, right," said Hank, struggling to get his arm out of the shirt. He finally shook the limb free and held Connor's face with both hands for a blissful second before he started working on the left arm.

Constant contact, because Connor begged and showed him where to touch. Hank didn't want to stop touching him any more than Connor did. He nodded, thrilled, and guided Hank through the kitchen so he wouldn't trip. As soon as the shirt dropped to the floor, Hank kissed him again, his fingers curling in Connor's hair.

In the living room, Connor pushed Hank onto the couch and sank into his lap. His knees were tight against Hank's hips, ramming into the back of the couch. Hank grunted and gripped under his thigh, shifting him around.

Connor flattened his hands on Hank's chest and gazed down at him. He was flushed and happy, one side of his mouth tugging into a smile. Curly grey hair spilled around his undershirt. Underneath, there was more hair on his stomach, where a dark trail lead to his groin. He had positioned Connor over him in a way that kept his erection rubbing against Connor's frame. If Connor moved, the action sent pleasure rolling through his body.

"Have you ever done any of this before?" Hank asked. He slid his hand up Connor's side, taking a slow path towards his face.

Connor shook his head. He disabled video for a few seconds, reveling in the two warm hands on either side of his face, then slumped forward into Hank's neck. More touch. More contact. Hank shifted, one hand cradling the back of his head and the other on his back, under his shirt. _Wonderful_. Nearly every part of his frame was touching Hank, and Hank kept pulling him closer.

"Seems like you know what you're doing."

"I watched a lot of pornography," said Connor. He thumbed at Hank's nipple, watching his body's reaction. There was hardly any. He would have to try again without the fabric in the way. With his mouth, too. "And I've explored my fantasies in virtual reality. I only need to see something once to memorize it."

Hank's hand pressed harder into his back. His hips jerked. "Fantasies?"

"Yes," said Connor. He licked at the sweat gathered in Hank's throat. His frame hummed. "I always imagined you."

A chuckle. A snort. Hank didn't believe him. Connor worked a hand between their bodies so he could unfasten Hank's belt.

"So you still," said Hank, a small gasp escaping his mouth, "think about me?"

Connor unbuttoned his jeans and started tugging at the zipper. "Often."

"What d'you think about?"

"You," Connor answered. When Hank rolled his eyes and told him to narrow it down, he added, "Whenever I have spare processing power, I like to remember all the times you've touched me."

"So that's what you do at night."

Connor sat up and shifted his weight, giving himself enough room to slide his hand inside Hank's jeans. He groped his erection through his boxers, watching Hank slump back into the couch. "I do it all the time."

"Even at work?"

There were many, _many_ days in the station that Connor spent with one part of his mind focused on whatever query or analysis he had prepared and another on Hank's fingers, Hank's skin, Hank's saliva. Hank, Hank, Hank.

"I'm capable of managing multiple tasks at maximum efficiency," said Connor.

Hank chuckled, pressing his fingers into Connor's back. The skin around his eyes crinkled. "You deviant."

It was an old joke, one that grew stale around mid-January, but Connor still loved it. Anything that delighted Hank this much was worth hearing.

"Yes," said Connor. "Take off your pants."

Hank's eyebrows shot up, but he shrugged and lifted his hips, kicking his jeans onto the floor. Connor eased off his lap and onto the floor, kneeling at his feet. The loss of Hank's touch left him cold and empty, so he immediately placed his hands on Hank's thighs.

"This will be my first attempt at fellatio," said Connor. It was not an act he was designed for, but he had basic knowledge and the analyzed data from literal decades of pornography. That, and not needing to breathe, gave him an advantage. "But you can't harm me and I'll improve with practice. Please tell me if I do something incorrectly."

Hank slid a hand over Connor's cheek, thumbing at his mouth. "You're all business, huh."

His voice was calm, even though his pulse rose steadily. Connor turned, tasting himself, because that was the last thing Hank touched. His own skin, and Hank's sweat. It was a tempting mixture. He reached for the boxers' waistband and stopped, frowning.

"I can't produce saliva," said Connor. There was no lubrication in the house, either. He offered Hank his hand. "Will you get my hand wet?"

Hank hesitated, looking like he was trying not to smile, but he took Connor's hand by the wrist. His thumb pressed into the bottom of his palm, where a human's pulse would be. He brought Connor's hand to his mouth and sucked the index finger, his tongue moving steadily over the digit.

"Oh, shit," said Connor, jerking. His hands were sensitive; they had to be, given the data he was meant to collect. He'd never—he hadn't considered—

Middle finger. Hank's cheeks hollowed. He eased back, tongue curling around the tip. Connor dug his fingers into Hank's thigh, watching. There was nothing else: just Hank, and his mouth, and his tongue, and the wet slide of his mouth over Connor's fingers, and the tiny _pop_ sound his mouth made when he pulled away. When Hank was done, he moved on to Connor's palm, pressing damp kisses to every inch of skin.

"You've got a serious oral fixation," said Hank, just before he took three of Connor's fingers into his mouth.

Yes. Connor's frame hummed. Yes, yes, yes. He moved his fingers slightly, pressing down on Hank's tongue. Hank sucked harder. _Yes_ —

Everything went black. For nine seconds, he had no audio or video.

When his senses returned, Hank hadn't stopped. Slowly, Connor eased his fingers out of Hank's mouth.

"Yes," said Connor weakly. He blinked until his optical units reset. "I do."

Hank touched his head, thumbing at his LED. "Did you just come?"

In a manner of speaking. Connor nodded. Hank palmed his erection, groaning. It was a good sound, from deep in his chest. Connor wanted to hear it again, and again, and again.

"Keep touching yourself," said Connor. He worked his damp hand into Hank's boxers, taking a moment to touch the coarse hairs around his groin, and pulled out his cock. Circumcised. Average length. Thick. Heavy. A musky smell filled his olfactory sensors. He curled his fingers around the base of the shaft and stroked a few times, staring. "Please."

"You got it, boss," said Hank hoarsely. He shifted his weight and replaced Connor's hand with his own, clearing his throat. "Don't know why you wanna watch an old man jerk off, but sure."

Connor placed his hands on Hank's knees, watching how he stroked himself. The rhythm. Every slight movement. Any touch that altered his breathing.

"There is very little you can do that I wouldn't find stimulating in some way," said Connor. This was perfect: new scents, new tastes, flushed skin, the contrast of his nude thighs and cock with the dark boxers.

Hank snorted. He brought his hand to his mouth, licked a broad stripe over his palm, and returned to his cock. "If you say so."

"I do say so," said Connor. He slid his hands up Hank's thighs, delighting in the way the muscle flexed under his palms. "You can stop now. I have enough data."

"That was quick," Hank muttered, but he stopped. The flush in his face had spread down his neck and chest, leaving splotches of pink over his skin.

Connor wrapped his fingers around Hank's erection, pressing his tongue under the head. A new taste—and one that made sensation erupt throughout his frame. He enjoyed the weight of this cock in his hand, and how the skin texture and temperature differed from what he was used to. Every movement he made caused a change in Hank's body: a gasp, a jerk of his hips, fingers twisting into a fist.

"I'm impatient," said Connor. He took one of Hank's hands and placed it on his cheek. "Move me in a way that pleases you."

Hank's flush deepened. His fingers twisted in Connor's hair.

Connor studied his environment, determining the best approach. There were several options, but only one made his frame sing, so he opened his mouth and took Hank's cock into his throat. The taste was familiar now; he wanted more. He manipulated his throat, imitating a swallow.

" _Fuck_ ," Hank hissed. His entire body stilled. There was a croaking sound, caught between a moan and a gasp. "Connor, you gotta warn me—oh, Jesus _Christ_ —"

His limbs strained with effort to stay still. Connor drew back, frowning. He pressed his thumb into the head of Hank's cock, watching his eyelids flutter shut.

"Hank, I can't breathe."

"Yeah, 'cause you had a dick in your—wait."

"Right," said Connor. He nudged his head into Hank's hand. Did he need to make a formal request? Possibly. "I want you to fuck my mouth."

Hank made that low sound again and settled back into the couch, cursing. He pushed his hand through Connor's hair, tugging him closer.

"Please," Connor added, and returned to work. He kept one hand on Hank's side, thumb pressing into his hip bone, and another on his chest.

"Okay," Hank murmured. He gripped Connor's hair and thrust into his mouth, cursing.

_Finally_. Connor kept his face buried between Hank's thighs, letting every smell and taste overwhelm his sensors. Hank's heart thudded swiftly under his palm. He manipulated his throat, over and over, matching the rhythm of Hank's thrusts. His oral scanner spat a constant torrent of data at him.

_Hank Anderson / 53 / DPD Lieutenant / None—Hank Anderson / 53 / DPD Lieutenant / None—Hank Anderson / 53 / DPD Lieutenant / None—_

A hand, on top of his. Hank had linked their fingers together over his chest and brought Connor's hand to his mouth. Wet warmth enveloped two of Connor's fingers. He could feel Hank groaning around his skin.

_Hank Anderson / 53 / DPD Lieutenant / None—_

Connor disabled the scanner results. Too much data. Too much noise. All he wanted was Hank.

When he had reduced Hank to a sweaty wreck, only able to curse and murmur his name, he replaced his mouth with his hand. There was no rhythm anymore; Hank's hips jerked wildly. Soon.

"Hank," said Connor, watching Hank's eyes screw shut.

He sensed the orgasm before Hank bit his lip, before his body stilled, before he groaned Connor's name and pressed his thumb into his cheekbone. There was enough time to position himself so that ejaculate landed on one side of his face, painting his forehead, cheek, mouth, and jaw. Connor tipped his head back, struck dumb by the scent, the semen on his tongue, the way Hank was _looking_ at him.

"Fuck," Hank rasped. One of his hands slipped off Connor's head, towards the dirty cheek, but he didn't touch.

That wouldn't do. Connor pried his hand out of Hank's mouth and dragged two fingers through the mess on his face. He sucked them into his mouth, burying and trashing the resulting data, because he wanted—needed—to focus on Hank and the groan that spilled from his mouth and the way his hips jerked. He archived this memory again, and again, and again.

"Jesus, Connor," Hank muttered. He swiped two fingers over Connor's cheek and offered the digits.

Connor grabbed Hank's hand, guiding the fingers into his mouth. He couldn't speak. Could hardly move. Hank's semen, Hank's skin, Hank's sweat—

"There," said Hank, once Connor's face was clean. He tucked himself back into his boxers and grabbed under Connor's arms, heaving. "Get up—oh, shit, you're heavier than you look. C'mere."

Connor stood, so Hank didn't strain his back pulling him up, and returned to his lap. He was dimly aware of Hank's voice, of Hank embracing him, of Hank moving closer before they kissed again. The old marks on his throat flared, remembering last week. The first kiss, technically. Sloppy and wet, reeking of bourbon. The one from earlier tonight was better.

Everything was quieter, now. The world wasn't so desperate anymore, narrowed down to Hank's touch, but he still felt good. Certainly better than he had after long nights of digging into his archives on the couch. That left him satisfied, but this—this was better, too. He looped his arms tighter around Hank's shoulders, mouthing at his neck.

"You good?" Hank asked. One of his hands left five warm marks on Connor's back. "Need anything?"

Connor shook his head. He was soaked in Hank's touch; he didn't need anything else. There were traces of semen on his face and fresh fingerprints on his skin and old ones under his frame. His physical sensors wailed, exhausted.

"Okay," said Hank, sounding unsure. He tipped his head back, sighing. "Goddamn."

They remained quiet, except for Hank's heavy breathing. Connor kept kissing and touching his neck until his pulse slowed to a normal pace.

"Next time," said Connor, pressing an open kiss into the hollow of Hank's throat, "you'll come in my mouth."

Hank rubbed small circles over Connor's back. "Next time, huh. So, you didn't wanna pop your cherry and leave?"

"I'm not going anywhere. Also, I don't have a hymen, so even if—"

"Don't do the literal robot shit."

It sounded like Hank was frowning. Connor craned his neck to check and saw that he was right. He sat up, drawing his hands back and resting them on his own thighs. Giving space—as much as he could, with Hank trapped under him.

"Look," said Hank, his brows furrowing. He glanced away, focusing on something over Connor's shoulder. His arms hung limply at his sides. "Are you gonna want to fool around again? You trying to date me or something? I mean, Christ, Connor—"

For a moment, Connor adjusted his internal diagnostics. He felt sluggish and weak, as though he'd gone months without conserving power. Now that Hank was talking, his emotional state was obvious, but Connor should have picked up on it sooner. He'd spent too much time relaxing, greedy for more of Hank's touch.

Thirium, power, general functionality: all clear.

"—tell me. I don't think as fast as you," said Hank. Anxiety hung around him like a cloak. He drummed his fingers along the arm of the couch, the way he did when he was itching for a cigarette. "You gotta spell this shit out for me."

Oh. That was easy. Connor could be blunt.

"I want you," said Connor. Surprise flickered over Hank's face, as though Connor hadn't said similar things in the past. He would have to work harder to ensure Hank retained this information. "I don't want to leave. I wasn't using you for a sexual experience. I would like to continue fucking you. If you're interested in a romantic relationship, I would gladly explore that with you."

Hank stared at him for a few seconds. His lips moved, but he said nothing. Disbelief, again?

"I want to be your partner," said Connor. His hands were so _empty_. He dug his fingers into his palms. "In every sense of the word."

After a few seconds, he felt Hank unwind below him. His limbs slacked. His head bowed. Warm air ghosted over Connor's skin.

"Ah, shit," Hank muttered. He scrubbed at his face, grimacing. "Sorry for ruining the mood. And yelling."

"It's not, and you didn't even raise your voice."

"Well, it feels like I did."

"I want you," Connor repeated. He cupped Hank's face in his hands, letting the beard scratch over his palms. "I want to work with you. I want to live with you."

"And you want to sleep with me," said Hank. Slowly, as though he was typing each word. Despite growing up with ready access to computers, his typing skills were atrocious. He fit his hands over Connor's hips, saying, "For some reason."

"Yes. What do you think?"

Hank slid his right hand under Connor's shirt, pressing his fingers into his spine. "It's a fucking terrible idea and we'll probably regret everything."

Several of Connor's background processors halted abruptly. It was difficult to tell if Hank was being honest or exaggerating for humor, especially when Hank was touching him.

"So yeah, I'm up for it," said Hank. He turned, kissing Connor's palm. "Let's play house, partner."

_Joy_. Connor recognized the emotion and welcomed it, grinning. He pressed their foreheads together and listened to Hank's pulse.

"Okay," said Connor. Hank was trying not to smile. "Thank you."

Hank snorted. "Yeah, yeah. You're welcome? It's gonna be—"

The DPD pinged.

"Wait," said Connor, listening. 

Hank glanced at his LED, frowning. "What's going on?"

"Another android body," Connor answered. More details kept pouring in. He pulled away from Hank. "Same as the AP-400."

"Oh, shit." Hank pressed his fingers into his eyes, the way he did in the morning. "Where?"

"Riverside Park," said Connor. It was difficult to sit here and talk about work while Hank was below him, still smelling like sex. He flattened his facial expression, attempting to look professional. "Some teenagers found it."

"Okay," Hank muttered. He tapped Connor's thigh, nudging him off his lap. "Do I have time to shower?"

"If you're quick," Connor answered. They had witnesses to interview. "I'll make you coffee."

Hank stumbled down the hallway, tugging his undershirt over his head. Connor watched, desperately trying not to think of the hidden stains on his face and hands and the semen and sweat in his waste tank. It didn't work. He was _covered_ in Hank.

"Connor," Hank called. The shower was already running. He poked his head around the doorway, adding, "Coffee."

"Coffee," Connor repeated. He forced his processors away from personal matters and back to work.

Focus.

After changing his clothes, he made coffee and filled a travel mug. He emptied the beer into the sink and recycled the bottle. He scrubbed his face with a washcloth.

Three minutes later, Hank came back, combing his fingers through his wet hair. There were damp spots on his shirt. A drop of water clung to his ear. He smelled like soap and toothpaste instead of sex and sweat.

"Coffee," said Hank, searching the kitchen. "Coffee, coffee—"

Connor offered the mug. Hank held onto it with both hands, sighing.

"Coffee," said Hank in a hushed voice, as though he was holding a sacred artifact. He drank, his throat working heavily with each swallow, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," said Connor. He fixed his tie, watching Hank take another sip, and added, "Partner."

Hank's ears turned red. He coughed and tried to hide the sound in the coffee mug.

"We can keep talking later," said Hank. He started walking towards the door and stopped, eyes darting all over Connor's face. Eventually, he leaned closer, brushing his lips over Connor's temple. "If you want."

Connor's hands itched. He nodded, humming. "I'll drive."

"Thanks," said Hank. He tipped Connor's chin up and pressed their mouths together, so lightly that it was hardly a kiss at all. "Let's go."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor references to Hank's suicidal thoughts.

There was already a crowd at Riverside Park. Press, shouting questions to the stony-faced officers behind the police tape. Nighttime joggers, curious about what was keeping them from their usual paths. An ambulance and a handful of bored-looking paramedics, blaring red lights over the parking lot. The body was a short walk away, judging by the semi-circle of police officers on the grass.

"Hey, Connor," said Irene Blackwood. Her eyes were very bright. Caffeine, Connor noted. She was holding a paper cup from a nearby gas station. He could smell coffee on her breath. "Lieutenant Anderson. What happened out here?"

"I'll let you know once I've actually been to the scene," said Hank. He nudged Connor towards the police tape.

Blackwood snorted. She looked at the drone floating over her shoulder. "Yeah, that never happens."

"I'm losing you," said Hank, as he walked backward. He cupped his hand over his ear, leaning towards her. "Are you saying something? I think I'm going through a tunnel."

"You dick," said Blackwood. She made a rude gesture towards Hank, which he returned.

Once they were a few paces away, Hank glanced at Connor. "What, no comment?"

"You've known Irene Blackwood for over a decade," said Connor. Even if he hadn't investigated her—which he had, after the third interview request—he would know they were friendly based on their tone and body language. "She wrote about the Red Ice Task Force for her college paper, which drew the attention of several newspapers. She had job offers right out of college, which she accepted. She's freelance now."

"Oh, yeah," said Hank. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I forgot. Your creepy scans."

"They're perfectly harmless," said Connor. His facial scanner relied on data that CyberLife had spent years collecting. The physical scans weren't like MRIs or X-rays; he absorbed data at a microscopic level and generated a reproduction of what he observed. "You don't have to worry about carcinogens."

Hank's head snapped to the side. "Jesus, I'm worrying now! How often do you scan me?"

"A lot," Connor answered. Before Hank could respond, he swiftly moved on, pointing at a nearby picnic table. "Our witnesses."

Three teenagers were sitting there, huddled together on the bench despite the heat. All of them looked exhausted. One—Catherine Russell, sixteen—had stopped crying only recently. All three smelled like marijuana and cigarette smoke.

"Do you want to talk to them now?" Connor asked.

Hank shook his head. He strode ahead, breaking apart the circle of officers. That exposed the white plastic torso in the grass. Its eyeless head. The only difference from the previous body was the arm, which was still attached at the shoulder. Its fingers were clawed deeply into the dirt.

"Tell me what we got here, boys," said Hank.

"Dead plastic," said one officer. Connor ignored him.

"Kids found it trying to crawl through the park," said Chris. Connor turned to him, pleased to see a familiar face. "And then it shut down. I didn't think that was possible—it's practically empty."

"Humans can do extraordinary things under duress," said Connor. He crouched down, pressing his fingers to the android's skull. "I suspect it's the same for androids. No name stored," he added. Another reset. "She's an MP-500 model. I can't find any employment history."

Hank rubbed at his mouth. Connor blinked, trying to focus.

"Do we know where she came from?" Hank asked.

Chris pointed at the path leading further into the park. "Yeah. A bathroom, down that way. There's some blue blood, but no parts."

Same as the AP-400 in the motel. Connor stood, wiping the grass stains from his pants. It only made the green spread further through the fabric. "How many officers are canvassing the park?"

"Ten," Chris answered. "More on the way. We haven't found anything yet."

"And the kids," said Hank. Connor turned his attention to them.

Catherine was sniffing. Her friends—Meadow Clarke and Piper Ridley, both fifteen—nuzzled closer. Meadow murmured something in her ear that made her smile.

Chris listed off their names to Hank in a whisper. "Catherine's the one who found her. She's pretty shaken up about it."

Hank turned his back to them, lowering his voice. "Let me do most of the talking."

Connor nodded. That made sense. He was better suited for interrogations, and children tended to gravitate towards Hank.

"Girls," said Chris, his voice flattening into a kinder tone. He led Hank and Connor over to the picnic table. "This is Lieutenant Anderson and his partner, Connor. They're going to talk to you about what you saw."

"But we already _said_ ," Catherine whispered, her voice growing higher and tighter in her throat. Her friends squeezed her hands.

"I know," said Hank. He came to a stop in front of the table, blocking the teens' view of the MP-500. Connor saw the moment he recognized the marijuana smell—his nostrils flared, and he hid a smile. "Tell me what you remember."

"I was—walking," said Catherine, her voice shaking. She wiped her nose. "And I heard this, like, grunting sound, and I thought it was some creep jerking it, you know? So I started yelling and kicking at the tree, to scare him off, and—and—"

She gulped. Her eyes were saucers.

"Take your time," said Hank gently.

"That—that thing, it grabbed my ankle. I was so scared I couldn't move. I just—stood there, until it made this _horrible_ sound. Like a scream? Except it didn't come out of its mouth."

"It was like, metal against metal," Meadow added. "Really loud."

Internal components breaking down. Audio outputs disrupted. Two events that rarely occurred at the same time. Connor had seen it happen once, when an android was hit by a car. It was a panicked response to severe trauma.

"That can happen," Connor murmured. Hank nodded.

Catherine sniffed. "And then it grabbed at the tree and the ground and it stopped moving."

"We heard everything and came running," said Piper. "I called 911."

"Smart thinking," said Hank. He glanced around the park. "Can you tell me what you were doing out here so late?"

"Uh," said Catherine, visibly searching for a lie.

Meadow cleared her throat. "We were—"

"We were looking for a safe place to smoke," Piper interrupted. Meadow hissed her name, flushing.

"You have to wait a couple years to buy cigarettes," said Hank, fixing them with a distinctly disappointed look.

The girls relaxed. Connor waited, knowing what was coming.

"Weed, too," Hank added. They all winced. He shoved his thumb towards Connor. "He's practically a drug dog." Connor bowed, willing to take the blame. "Smelled it on you the moment he saw you."

Piper lifted her chin. "It's not illegal."

"If you're eighteen," said Hank. "Look, I don't give a shit. Can't you smoke behind your house—or in your car? Good old-fashioned hotbox." He glanced at Chris. "The fuck are kids doing these days?"

"Red ice, mostly," said Piper. Connor liked her. She wasn't intimidated by Hank. "And we took the bus here. You don't smoke and drive."

"Points for the youths," said Chris. Piper beamed.

"Alright, alright," Hank grumbled. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at the dead android. "We're done."

"Have all of you contacted your parents?" Connor asked. Catherine blinked, eyes darting between him and Hank. Meadow stared at his jacket and the blinking model number. "I can call them directly."

Piper nodded. "Yeah, my dads are coming."

"Alright," said Hank, nodding. "Thanks. Chris is gonna give you our number at the station, so you can call me if you remember anything else, okay?"

"Okay," all three chorused.

They left the teens with Chris and headed for the bathroom, following the blood and claw marks in the dirt. Thirium stains. Fingerprints, of course, but given the crowds of people that passed through the park every day, that wasn't exactly helpful.

"Fucking weird," Hank muttered.

There was another trail of blood outside the bathroom, headed in the opposite direction of the corpse. Connor followed it. Hank hurried after him.

The trail ended at a bench, overlooking the river. Perhaps the MP-500 had been sitting here, talking with the person who eventually killed her. Or she'd been taken by surprise and dragged into the bathroom to be mutilated. Had she put up a fight? That could explain why she'd been left with one limb and managed to drag herself away. But there was nothing in the bathroom to suggest an altercation, since the only thing left behind was MP-500's thirium. Was the murderer interrupted? Did the MP-500 wake up?

"There's just her blood," said Connor, before Hank could ask. After the technicians uploaded their photos of the scene, he would add the splatter overlay. "What do you think about this, Hank?"

Hank studied the empty bench. "I'm wondering if we're dealing with an android."

That was a possibility. It could explain how there appeared to be nothing else at the crime scene. No blood, no fingernails, no skin. Nothing to implicate the murderer.

"Or some human who really hates androids and knows how to clean up after themselves," Hank added. He stared out at the river, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "But why drain the blood?"

"We can share thirium," said Connor. There were no blood types for androids. "It's less efficient after it's already been through an android's body, but it's still viable fuel."

"A broken android needs blood, so they destroy another android for the parts?"

"Then we would be dealing with two separate assailants, because AP and MP models aren't compatible."

"Would the average android know that or just one with your kind of scanning?"

"Any of us. It's common knowledge."

Hank glanced back at him. "Okay, so the murderer doesn't need parts for themselves. They're doing this for fun? We do have a pattern here."

"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence."

"Three times is enemy action," said Hank quietly, almost to himself. He gazed back the river, folding his arms over his chest.

Connor looked around the park, searching. Nothing. He would have to look at traffic cameras in order to see if anyone in the area tonight had also been near the motel. "I have a lot of footage to analyze."

"Tomorrow," said Hank. He glanced up at the moon, adding, "Today. Whatever. I need to sleep."

"We can finish our conversation in the morning," said Connor. With perfect recall, he remembered Hank's body against his, his fingers in Hank's mouth, the sounds he made. His fingers itched to adjust his tie or fiddle with his coin.

Hank looked at him, smiling. "Lemme talk to Chris before we leave."

He walked past Connor, patting his chest. His fingers lingered over Connor's shoulder.

*

Back home, Hank went straight for his liquor and took a pull from a bottle of whiskey. A single shot, Connor estimated, and then he was done. He wiped his mouth and headed for the coffee machine, setting it up to brew in six hours. Connor stood in the hallway, watching.

"I'm gonna try and get some sleep," said Hank, as he poured ground coffee into a filter. He dropped the filter into the machine, adding, "You wanna…come with?"

"I thought you wanted to go to bed," said Connor. Hank sounded so casual that he had to be nervous. He wasn't making eye contact, either.

Hank detached the water tank and filled it up in the sink. "Pretty sure you get off on watching me sleep."

"I don't," Connor protested. He didn't. Not really. The feelings he experienced watching Hank fall asleep and having Hank fellate his fingers were entirely separate. Hank's presence was the only similarity. "I just…like it."

"Uh huh," said Hank, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling. He finished setting up the coffee maker and left the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck. "You coming?"

Connor followed. He could see Hank's shoulders tensing under his shirt.

"Haven't had anyone in my bed in years," said Hank, unbuckling his belt. "Sorry if I kick you. Oh, and I snore."

"I know," said Connor. He leaned in the doorway, watching.

Hank tossed his belt into the closet. "I'm not putting on a show for you."

"That's okay," said Connor. He eyed Hank, watching him unbutton his shirt. If there was one thing he regretted about his actions earlier tonight, it was that he hadn't touched Hank's bare chest. "I like this."

Hank shoved his jeans down, laughing. "God, you're easy to please."

"Extremely," said Connor. His frame hummed, as if in agreement.

When Hank was down to an undershirt and boxers, he got into bed. The left side, furthest from the door. He lay on his side, one arm bent under the pillow. The sheets bunched up around his legs. Connor turned off the light and followed, stretching out beside him.

"You comfortable in this?" Hank asked, plucking at Connor's shirt.

"Oh," said Connor, glancing down. He didn't think about his clothing that often. Most of the time, it was just there. "I suppose I am?"

Hank tugged at his tie until it was loose. Connor bowed his head, remembering.

"So," said Hank, clearing his throat. He worked his way down Connor's chest, popping each button open with his thumb and index finger. "About—earlier. When we..."

"When we had sex," said Connor, sliding out of his shirt. "I remember."

Hank snorted. He touched Connor's side, fitting his hand over his hip. His fingers made slow, small circles. "Yeah, that."

"Have you changed your mind about—" What had Hank called it? "—playing house?"

"Did you? Thought we were dating now."

"Oh, good. Are you going to call me your boyfriend?"

Hank made a face. "I'm too old for boyfriends and girlfriends. Let's stick with partner, if you have to say something."

Connor slid his hand up Hank's side to his jaw. "Okay. That works for me."

They kissed—briefly, to Connor's disappointment. Hank pulled away.

"I wanted to say something, before we got interrupted," said Hank. His pulse jumped. He drew his hand back, pushing his fingers through his hair. "I just—I gotta get it out."

Connor nodded. He pressed his fingers into Hank's back before he let go, flattening his hand on the space between them. He waited, watching Hank think.

"I'm a mess," said Hank, finally. "I mean, you've been living with me, so you know that, but—it's bad. Not as bad as it used to be, but still fucking terrible." He pointed his index finger at his head. When he bent his thumb, he jerked his head in the opposite direction. "Every day, every night. Maybe I don't think about it all the time now, but I'm not—better."

"I know," said Connor, as delicately as he could. Hank didn't talk about this when he was sober for a reason. "I understand. I don't expect that to change right away."

"You're the first person I've actually talked to besides a bartender in years." Hank closed his eyes, covering them with his palm. "I lose that, and I'm _fucked_. You get that, right?"

"Yes," Connor answered. He'd guessed this on New Year's Eve, when Hank told him _this is a bad idea_ , and known for certain since February. _Best partner I've had. Don't wanna lose that._ "I understand."

Hank scrubbed at his face. "I can't put all this shit on you."

"Of course you can."

"Connor," said Hank, defeated. "Look, it's—"

"Not that simple," Connor guessed. Hank's mouth twisted. "You help me, and I help you. Remember?"

Hank sighed. He shifted around, pushing his head into the pillow. "Yeah. I remember." He opened his eyes and covered Connor's hand, linking their fingers together. "I just don't get why you would want anything to do with an old drunk."

"Oh, Hank," said Connor. He brought Hank's hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. "You're not old."

Laughter. It was bright in Hank's eyes and spilling out of his throat, his chest shaking with the sound.

"Asshole," said Hank, fondly. He touched Connor's hip again, tugging him closer.

"You should sleep," Connor reminded him. "We can talk about this tomorrow. Or not at all. Whatever you want."

Hank murmured in agreement and closed his eyes.

"Aren't you more comfortable on your other side?" Connor asked. If Hank wasn't sleeping on his back, he preferred his right side.

"Seriously?" Hank opened his eyes, peering at Connor. "You kept this in your little file on me?"

"Of course I did," Connor answered. He nudged at Hank's shoulder. "And it's not little."

There was a snort, but Hank did roll over onto his other side. When Connor slung an arm around his waist, he made a surprised sound and leaned back.

"Shit," said Hank, closing his eyes. He covered Connor's hand with his own, tangling their fingers together, and brought it up to his chest. "I never get to be the little spoon."

Connor kissed the back of his neck. He watched Hank fall asleep, listening to his heartbeat.

*

Hank wanted to keep this between them, which was probably for the best.

Technically, they weren't breaking any regulations—androids weren't specifically named in any ethical guidelines—but they were still partners, and their actions reflected on the DPD. Any scenario where they disclosed their relationship to Captain Fowler was unlikely to go well for his friendship with Hank or Connor's employment. If the general public knew, the press attention would be inescapable and probably affect any ongoing cases.

"I understand," said Connor, after Hank kept insisting _for now_. "I agree with you, remember?"

"I know, I just…" Hank stopped talking and fiddled with the car radio, skipping through several music stations until he found the morning news. "Just wanted you to know I'm not—ashamed of you."

"I didn't think you were," said Connor. Hank was more likely to be ashamed of himself than Connor. "You were born in the eighties, not the eighteen hundreds."

Hank snorted. "Okay. Let's go be professionals."

Work was extremely difficult.

For nearly six months, Connor had thought about a hand on his back, fingers around his wrist, old marks on his veins, an arm around his shoulder—and now, there was a tongue under his fingers, a mouth on his neck, a body pressed against his frame. Fresh data. He knew the sounds Hank made when he came. What he tasted like. The soft smile he gave Connor in the morning.

Existing around Hank, knowing all of this, made him hyper-aware of physical contact. Anything as simple as a nudge at his shoulder sent him spiraling through memories and sensations. He knew the difference between a casual touch and something more carnal, but he needed time to adjust and react appropriately.

For a few days, Hank kept his distance and rarely spoke to him at the precinct, which reminded Connor of January and made Chris think they were fighting.

"I think I have everything under control," said Connor, yanking the car door shut. "I'm sorry this took so long."

"It's okay," said Hank. He shifted into reverse. "Can I touch you at work without jerking you off?"

"Yes," Connor answered. When Hank stole a glance at him, he added, "Please."

Hank slung his arm over the back of the seats, touching the back of Connor's neck. He liked to pick a spot on Connor's frame and rub his thumb over the plastic, as if he could grind through with just his hand. In the car, on the couch, in the kitchen, in bed—he chose somewhere and kept touching until Connor went quiet and still, losing himself to sensation.

 _You good?_ Hank liked to ask. _You like this? What about this_. Always, Connor said _yes_. New touches. New experiences.

He found satisfaction in touch. His fingers in Hank's mouth, pressing down on his tongue. The rumble of Hank's chest when he swore. All the ways Hank's body changed temperature when Connor was near him, on top of him, inside him. The steady rhythm of Hank's heartbeat at night. 

Spending his nights in Hank's bed proved to be a far more worthwhile use of his time than wandering the house or staying at the station. Reducing energy usage and power cycling various components didn't require comfort or a flat surface, but he enjoyed lying in bed with Hank beside him. His arm around Hank's waist, face buried in Hank's hair. Face to face, Hank's heart beating steadily against Connor's frame. If Hank was drunk, he would sprawl out over the bed, half on top of Connor. He liked that, too, especially when Hank nuzzled into his neck, drooling.

"God," Hank murmured, still trying to catch his breath. He rubbed his fingers through the sticky mess on Connor's thighs, pressing hard into the smooth plastic. When he groaned, the sound reverberated down Connor's neck and throughout his frame. "I could do this every morning."

There was so much new data to experience. Connor considered himself to be proficient in understanding Hank's moods and body language, and now he had more to learn.

How Hank liked to be touched. The spots on his neck that turned him into a slurring mess. How many fingers he could take before he begged Connor to fuck him already. The brief window of time where his nipples were just sensitive enough to bite. How many times he could come in an hour, a day, a week. The precise conditions under which he allowed Connor to tongue his hole. How relaxed he could look sprawled out on the bed, nude and sweaty with an arm flung over his face.

"Fuck," Hank hissed, curling his fingers around the back of Connor's neck. He dug his nails into the spinal column. "D'you want me inside you again?"

Connor drew back and leaned against Hank's thigh, fumbling for the hidden latch on his neck. More of Hank's touch on him, _always_.

Hank, Hank, Hank.

* * *

Towards the end of July, Hank caught Jimmy's attention and ordered a whiskey. He glanced at Connor, asking, "You want anything?"

Every so often, Hank would offer to share his meals or make Connor a drink, even though androids couldn't consume any energy that way. In the past, there had been android prototypes designed to consume food scraps for fuel, but engineers were never able to balance the necessary power required with the amount of wasted food that was actually produced. Connor couldn't really eat; only chew and swallow. There was no digestion, of course, so he had to empty his waste tank manually. He agreed, sometimes, so he could tell Hank exactly what was in the roadside burger he was halfway through or how many people had touched the vegetables in his curry.

"Thirium, on the rocks," Connor answered. "With a splash of orange bitters."

Jimmy rolled his eyes and left to make Hank's drink.

"You know, it's fucking weird that you can replenish your blood by drinking it," said Hank.

Connor shrugged. "Not really. My throat connects to a receptacle that interprets what I've swallowed and determines where it should go. Somewhat like your digestive system. Thirium goes into my veins; everything else go into my waste tank."

Hank took his whiskey and lifted the glass towards Jimmy, murmuring his thanks. "How the fuck does that work?"

"Precise engineering, I assume," Connor answered. He tipped his head at the booth in the back. "Shall we?"

They sat. Connor folded his hands together on top of the table, watching Hank drink.

"So," said Hank. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, licking at the drops of whiskey left behind. "Got any thoughts on our android case?"

Connor slumped back into the booth. "No."

There was a severe lack of data. Malfunctioning cameras meant fewer facial scans, so they had to rely on people, but there were no eyewitness reports of the perpetrator and nothing suspicious caught on the few cameras that actually worked. The stolen parts hadn't shown up yet—at least, not anywhere Connor had connections. Hank had contacted all the people who left organic data behind at the crime scenes and was able to verify their alibis, which left them with more dead ends.

"We gotta wait for them to do it again," said Hank. Before Connor could respond, he held up his hand, saying, "I know—I know, it sucks. But we're running on fumes with this. We both need more to work with."

Under the table, Connor pressed his knee against Hank's. "I thought you didn't want to talk about work during personal hours."

"Usually don't," said Hank, nudging Connor's knee with his. "But you've been sulking about it for days. Figured you might wanna talk it out."

"Not after hours," Connor replied. Hank needed relaxation more than this discussion. "Let's talk about The Big Game."

"I think your socialization program is busted, partner."

"No, I'm engaging in conversation. The Big Game is a popular topic among coworkers."

"I can hear those fucking capitals."

*

At home, Connor stretched out over the bed and listened to Hank brush his teeth. They had spent nearly two hours talking about nothing in particular while Hank drank. Jimmy had even let Connor pay Hank's tab. Begrudgingly, but he still accepted the payment. If Connor knew it would only take money to make him more accepting of androids, he would have started buying drinks a lot sooner.

Hank trudged into the bedroom, wiping at his mouth. He crawled into bed, tugging the covers up his chest.

"I'm tired," said Hank, shifting around to get comfortable. Eventually, he sighed and rolled over, putting his back to Connor. "Sorry."

He always apologized when he wasn't in the mood, even though Connor told him that wasn't necessary. Connor touched Hank's hip, anticipating an initial flinch. There was none. He wrapped his arm around Hank's middle, tugging him closer.

"Don't be," said Connor. He kissed Hank's neck, just under his ear. "Good night."

Hank didn't say anything. He covered Connor's hand with his, bringing it up to his chest.

Inhale. Exhale. Seconds folded into minutes.

"You know," said Hank, sounding like he was already half-asleep, "you're gonna get bored of me."

Connor doubted that. From their first meeting, he had been curious about Hank. His mission didn't require that, and his interest in Hank hadn't waned. If anything, he wanted more. There was so much about Hank he didn't know yet.

"No, I don't think so," said Connor. The fingerprints inside his neck flared, sending spots of warm against his skin.

"We live together," said Hank, rubbing his thumb over Connor's knuckles. "Work the same cases. Sleep in the same bed."

They had done all of this, except the sex, since late November. Hank hadn't expressed irritation about Connor's presence in his home or workplace; he'd always seemed happy about it. Connor couldn't understand where this was coming from. Unless—

"Are _you_ bored?" Connor asked.

Hank was silent for a few seconds before he answered. "No."

"Okay," said Connor. Worry still crept through him. "I'm happy, with you."

"Me, too," Hank murmured, squeezing Connor's hand. "But all I really got in this world is my dog, my job, and you. And you're part of my job."

 _I lose that, and I'm fucked._ Connor held Hank tighter. "I could move to another precinct. Or quit."

Hank snorted. "If you were unemployed, you'd definitely be bored."

"Then I'll find another job," said Connor. Androids would be able to own businesses next year, barring any legal troubles. "I could be a private detective."

He watched Hank think about this: the little head tilt, how he dug his teeth into his lower lip.

Eventually, Hank said, "That's actually not a bad idea. You're a good investigator."

"CyberLife did spend a small fortune on me."

"Worth every fucking penny," said Hank. Joy swept through Connor's frame, lingering on Hank's fingerprints. "You need a couple years of work experience, though. Or a college degree."

"Technically, I was built with several advanced degrees," Connor replied. He kissed Hank's neck again, because it was there and that particular spot always made Hank shiver. "I'll look into it."

"You could get an office in a bad part of town. Keep a bottle of whiskey in your drawer. Solve cases for gorgeous dames in slinky dresses."

Connor leaned forward, resting his forehead on Hank's shoulder. "I'll need a coat and a hat if I want to play hard-boiled detective."

That provoked a chuckle from Hank, but nothing else. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was slowing. Inhale, exhale. Connor matched his rhythm until Hank flinched.

"What the _fuck_ ," said Hank, craning his neck to look back. "Are you—breathing?"

"I'm manipulating my torso to simulate respiration," Connor answered. He was built with several tools for infiltration, if necessary. Humans tended to notice the person who didn't need to breathe. "You say I sleep like the dead."

"Because you keep your eyes open and never move, which is creepy."

"I thought it might make you more comfortable," said Connor. Hank liked to sleep nestled together in bed, but he had expressed unease several times about waking up with dead weight clinging to him. "Does it?"

Hank shifted around, shoulder blades moving against Connor's frame. "Yeah, 's fine. It just surprised me." He turned back around, tangling his fingers with Connor's. "How're you doing that?"

"Magic," Connor answered. He heard Hank snort. "Good night, Hank."

Inhale, exhale.

* * *

On the first of August, Diana Yates blew up her suburban home making red ice.

Her neighbors were shocked. She had no criminal history. Not even a warning or a parking ticket. She was such a nice woman, trying so hard to keep everything together after her husband left, taking the kids with him. Friendly. Happy to mow your lawn, since she was already outside. Someone you could count on in an emergency.

But she was a sales representative, not a chemist.

The source of the explosion came from the kitchen, where she'd rigged up her laboratory. The fire spread quickly, eating through the surrounding rooms. The second floor collapsed. On the charred lawn, there was nothing left but rubble and ash and bones.

In her car trunk, there was a suitcase, a dark coat, and a pair of enormous sunglasses. Connor recognized the outfit from his hours of studying CCTV footage. The suitcase was filled with android limbs and biocomponents. All originally belonged to an MP-500 model.

"Jesus," said Hank, staring at the ruins of a three-bedroom, two-bath home. The firefighters were long gone, but the flashing lights from the police cars were still on, spilling red and blue over the debris. "You think our AP-400's parts are in there somewhere?"

Connor shrugged. He dug his heel into the dirt. "We should check the backyard."

"Kinda hope we only find android parts. Uh, no offense."

"None taken. Human limbs smell much worse when they're removed from the body."

Hank's mouth twisted. He turned to the side, coughing.

"She was making red ice," said Connor slowly. "Everything was destroyed, so we don't know if she was a competent manufacturer or not."

"Well," said Hank, gesturing at the burned building. Connor had to agree with him there. "And if she was killing androids to use their blood, then she's definitely not competent. Once blue blood circulates through a body, it loses potency. You can't just jam that into a cook and expect it to work like the fresh stuff."

Connor searched. Yes, he was correct.

"C'mon, I worked these kinda cases for years," said Hank. He nudged Connor's arm with his, laughing. "Don't look so surprised. I could probably whip up a batch of red ice myself. Anyway—" He made a checkmark in the air with his index finger. "Case closed. Let's go do paperwork."

Connor stood up a little straighter. "I like paperwork."

"I know, you fucking lunatic. Buy me a drink after."


	8. Chapter 8

July disappeared into August, and September.

For Hank's birthday, they took Sumo to a state park and had a picnic. Hank insisted he didn't want anything fancy, not even a cake or a nice steak dinner, but he allowed Connor to coax him into at least this. Hank and Sumo took a nap in the sun while Connor took several artful photographs, which he made copies of and emailed to Hank. Later that night, they went to a movie—a remake, one that Hank complained about the entire drive over but thoroughly enjoyed once he actually watched it—and then spent four satisfying hours in bed, until Hank thumped his chest and groaned, "Oh, Christ."

"You're not experiencing any cardiac distress," said Connor. He folded his arms over Hank's stomach and rested his chin on his wrists, watching Hank's chest heave with every breath. His skin was soaked in sweat, chest hair unkempt and damp. His thighs trembled slightly. "I would know."

"With your creepy little scans," said Hank, pushing his hand through Connor's hair. He rubbed his thumb over Connor's ear, smiling. "You good?"

Connor nodded, humming. "Happy birthday."

"Fuck yeah, it is. _Jesus_. You drained everything outta me."

"I certainly tried."

"Think I'm just gonna pass out now," Hank murmured. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes. His fingers kept moving through Connor's hair. "Yeah. Sleep. That sounds good."

Connor shifted his weight, so he wasn't lying entirely on top of Hank. He dragged his fingers over his thighs, coating them in Hank's sweat and semen residue, and licked them clean. When Hank's breathing slowed, he inched lower and rested his cheek on Hank's stomach.

"Thanks," Hank mumbled. His hand slid over Connor's head and down his back, rubbing along his spine. "Happy birthday to me."

* * *

"Would you enjoy sex more if I had genitalia?"

Hank choked, spilling hot coffee down his wrist and onto his shirt. He lifted the mug above his head and wiped at his chest, grimacing.

"In my current state, sex is thoroughly enjoyable for me," said Connor. He sat down across from Hank, folding his hands together over the kitchen table. "But if I can install something that would make this more pleasurable—or easier—for you, I'm happy to do so."

"Uh," said Hank, eyes darting around the kitchen. He gulped down several mouthfuls of coffee.

Nerves? Connor hadn't expected that. Their discussions of sexual matters were rarely interrupted by Hank's occasional bouts of modesty. Since he had always been candid with Hank, he kept going. "Do you have a preference? There are several options—well, fewer than before, since CyberLife isn't in production anymore. But I know the basics are still available. And I think Eden Club has some tentacles in storage."

"Of course they do," Hank muttered, desperately drinking more coffee. He peered at Connor over his mug. "Where's this coming from?"

Nowhere in particular. Connor had wondered if it would be interesting to experience. Mainly, he thought Hank would be more comfortable, since— "Sometimes, you tell me you don't know what you're doing."

"Maybe 'cause I haven't dated in over a decade and now I'm living with a guy who tries to suck my soul out through my dick every night. Jesus, lemme adjust before you bring up _tentacles_."

"Understood. No more tentacle talk," said Connor. Hank grunted and emptied his mug down his throat. "I thought you would be more comfortable if my body had physical reactions you're familiar with."

Hank considered this. He dragged his finger around the rim of his mug.

"I mean," he said, shrugging. "Maybe. But if you're good with this, why change anything?"

"For you," said Connor. He nudged Hank's knee with his. "Does the thought of me with genitalia arouse you?"

Hank's thighs fell open. "You should know by now that the combination of you and just about anything works for me."

"Yes, but I like hearing you say it," said Connor. Was there enough time for this conversation, breakfast, and oral sex before they had to be at the station? No, probably not. He kept his knee where it was, pressed against Hank's leg. 

"Okay, fine," Hank grumbled. He rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, resting his chin on his fingers. "Yeah. I'd like it. Thinking about you with a dick is tempting, but—I mean, do you want one? You like strap-ons—do you think of yourself as, uh, a man? Someone who has a dick?"

"I think of myself as Connor," said Connor. Humans fussed over gender and genitalia and bodies, but he didn't particularly care. Perhaps he liked this body and its accompanying gender because that was what he was built with, or because it was correct. Or a bit of both. It didn't matter; he was comfortable. "I have no strong opinions on gender, if that's what you're concerned about."

"I'm not concerned," said Hank, even though his brow was furrowed and his eyes were growing softer. "Do you _want_ a dick?"

"You think I should equip something else."

"No, I think you should get what you want," said Hank patiently. He studied Connor over his hands, his forehead still lined. "Not what I tell you."

Connor stared at him. He didn't understand why Hank was treating this so delicately, tiptoeing around even the concept of gender like it was a live mine. "But I don't need genitals."

"No shit, but—"

"This will be purely decorative for me," Connor interrupted. Hank must have assumed this would be permanent, since he hadn't said anything like this when he brought home a small collection of sex toys. "I can remove anything I install. Not as easily as swapping veins, but if I'm uncomfortable with my choice of genitalia, then it won't be a hassle to remove them entirely."

"Oh," said Hank, relaxing. "Okay." He scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess…yeah. Let's get you a dick."

"I'm contacting Eden Club now," said Connor, sending a message about their stock. He thought about Hank reaching over his hip and gripping something solid, pressing fingerprints into new skin. "You'll be able to touch me the same way you touch yourself. I like that."

"You get off on the weirdest shit."

"I get off on _you_. In you, sometimes. Near you. Other prepositional phrases."

Hank nudged his knee again. "Keep talking dirty, partner, and we'll be late for work."

"Promises, promises."

"Chris has a bet running with a couple of the other officers. I can't be late again. Hey, will everything—"

Eden Club sent a response. Michael—he'd finally found a name he liked. Connor tuned out for a second, registering the answer.

_your sugar daddy looking for something to get his hands around?_

_Maybe._

_HA_

_you can have whatever you want. we've got at least one of everything and they're just sitting in storage_

_New?_

_of course. no used dicks for my favorite plastic dick_

_sending serial numbers now_

_Thanks._

_come and visit if you wanna try before you buy_

Connor pictured standing in Eden Club together with Hank, surrounded by artificial lighting and the quiet hum of music while they fondled a plastic penis. He sent laughter in response. Michael sent a flurry of emoticons.

"—the same for you?" Hank asked. "If you…"

He made a gesture with his hand, like he was throwing confetti from inside his wrist.

Connor blinked, returning to the conversation. In the background, he matched serial numbers to CyberLife component details. "Are you talking about ejaculation?"

"You'll be able to do that?"

"Don't worry, I can't get you pregnant," said Connor. Hank rolled his eyes. "I'll have physical reactions. Most of the models include a semen substitute that I have to stock manually. Everything else will take a little time and modifications."

"Modifications?" Hank echoed, looking concerned.

"Nothing invasive," said Connor. He would need to assess his biocomponents and possibly install and modify pleasure modules until he determined what felt natural, but since he was already quite comfortable with his frame, it wouldn't take too long. A few sessions of trial and error. "You can help. It'll be fun. And easier, if you're there. I won't have to spend a lot of processing power on recollection."

"So, you want me to jerk you off," said Hank, miming, "until you get your wires crossed right?"

"Yes."

Hank shifted in his chair. "Why is that hot."

"Sexual activity is generally arousing," said Connor, watching a flush spread down Hank's neck. "Michael says we can pick up my gen—"

"Your dick. Your cock. Your _length_ , if you're feeling romantic."

"Fine, my _cock_. Well. My cocks." Connor stood up, heading for the desk in the living room. He picked up a tablet, bringing up CyberLife model data on the screen. "We can take whatever we like, and we can pick them up after work. Here, this is everything Eden Club has in storage."

Hank stared at the tablet, which displayed a rather sizable penis with various erotic attachments. He blinked. "Were you looking all this up while we were talking?"

"I can multitask."

"Jesus, I've only had one cup of coffee."

Connor took his empty mug and filled it, topping it off with a splash of milk. "I don't require caffeine to function. What do you think?"

"Uh," said Hank, flicking his eyes towards the tablet. He read, taking in size, shape, color, and optional functionality. "That won't fit up my ass, so no."

"Check the next one," said Connor. He rested his hand on the back of Hank's chair and leaned down, swiping his finger over the tablet screen. Too small. He knew by the neutral sound Hank made.

"How many do you have loaded into the tablet?"

"There's thirty-six models to choose from, all with varying modules and accessories."

Hank slumped in the chair, hiding behind his coffee. " _Jesus_."

"Or we can just take one of everything."

"I'm not walking out of a sex club with a bag full of dicks."

"Then we keep looking until you find one you like, Goldilocks," said Connor, swiping the screen again.

*

They ended up taking three. All were roughly average sized, with varying weights. One could vibrate. Connor wanted more, but Hank told him to stop being so greedy and let other androids pick up a free dick or two if they wanted.

In their bedroom, Connor sat on the bed and spread each model phallus over the sheets. He couldn't decide which one he wanted to try first. All of them had the same general profile, with model-specific settings, so they only had to customize his frame once.

Hank lingered in the doorway. He was intrigued by what they'd taken from Eden Club and had been since this morning. Connor had been tracking the state of his arousal all day.

"So," said Hank. When Sumo started ambling over, he hastily stepped inside and shut the door. "How's this work?"

"I did the majority of my modifications at Eden Club," said Connor. They were more complicated than he thought. Since Hank had nearly been sick the first and only time he watched Connor mend his frame, he thought it would be best to do it without Hank's presence. "Michael helped. All that's left is adjusting the settings and making sure everything lines up with my frame."

Hank snorted. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up one of units, running his thumb along the length. That one, Connor decided.

"So, while I was waiting in the car, you had another android inside you?"

Ninety-six percent chance of a joke. Connor peered closer, estimating. Yes. Hank was grinning, eyes crinkled.

"No, I did all the labor," Connor answered. He unbuckled his belt and reached for his zipper, watching Hank's eyes dart lower. His jeans were next. He kicked them onto the floor. "Michael verified that I had relocated power sources correctly."

When Connor reached for the phallus, Hank held it out of his reach.

"Not yet," said Hank, tugging at Connor's shirt. "I can't take this dick calibration seriously if you're Donald Duck'ing it."

Connor pulled his shirt up over his head and threw it over the side of the bed. He tracked the path of Hank's eyes—over his chest, up his neck, down his thighs—and slouched against the wall, drawing one knee up to his chest. Hank gripped the phallus tighter. Connor felt a phantom touch sweeping over his skin.

"Come on," Connor urged, beckoning Hank closer. He wanted to see what this felt like.

"You got it, boss," said Hank, kneeling on the bed. He rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and inched closer. "Can you show me how this plugs in? If that's what it does." With a start, he glanced down at his hand. "Shit, can I even do this?"

Connor shifted around, giving Hank had a clearer view. "I think so. You'll feel internal latches, like the ones on my neck."

"Seems easy enough," Hank muttered. He slid his hand between Connor's legs, searching, and made a quiet sound of triumph when he found what he was looking for. "There we go! Took me a second. They're smaller. And there's more of 'em."

Blood flowed. Power connected. Online. Connor was suddenly aware of something _new_ —new physical sensors, new skin. Error messages flooded in, warning him that his model was not specifically designed for sexual activity. He dismissed them, focusing.

His cock rested against his thigh, soft and covered with fresh fingerprints. He felt slightly off-balance, the way he had when he replaced one of his limbs—something on his frame that he wasn't accustomed to yet. The skin was already warm to the touch. Genuinely lifelike, CyberLife promised. He imagined Hank's fingers sliding over him, stroking him the way he touched himself.

Hank frowned, head bent low. "Did I attach this right? I can't tell."

He circled his fingers around the base and tugged. Instantly, Connor became erect.

"Oh, _Jesus_ ," said Hank, which as all he could manage before he let go and bowled over with laughter. He caught himself on the wall over Connor's head, shoulders shaking. "That was quick!"

"The default settings are extremely sensitive," said Connor. That was the first thing that needed to be changed. He adjusted. "Would you like to touch me?"

Hank grinned. His eyes fell to Connor's mouth. He wrapped his fingers around Connor's cock, stroking once from the base to the tip, and leaned closer—

"Oh," said Connor, ejaculating.

It was uneventful, to say the least. He received an alert and spilled over Hank's hand, dripping down the back of his palm. Nothing else. It didn't feel like anything he was used to, or how Hank had described orgasms. He preferred the way Hank's fingers felt against his skin. And it was far too much fluid. Almost comical. Far more than an average human orgasm.

"Thought you were done with puberty," said Hank, looking like he was trying to hide his laughter.

"I'm sensitive," Connor reminded him. He straightened his knee, so Hank was kneeling astride his legs, and tugged him closer.

"Apparently," said Hank, snorting. He brought his hand to his face and sniffed. Slowly, he slid the tips of his fingers into his mouth. For a moment, Connor yielded to memory—Hank's tongue on his thighs, Hank sucking Connor's fingers, Hank kissing his sticky mouth. "Yeah, this is definitely realistic."

"If you don't like the flavor, I can swap it out for something sweeter."

"Nah. If you're coming in my mouth, I want you to taste like dick. Not lollipops."

"No lollipops," said Connor, resting his hands on Hank's thighs. He squeezed, liking how the muscle flexed under his palms. "Noted."

Hank wiped his hand on the sheet and reached for Connor again, holding his softening cock so gently. "What's the verdict so far?"

"It's interesting," said Connor. There were dozens of sensors along the shaft. Not nearly as many as on his fingers, but more than his limbs. Hank's fingerprints flared with warmth. "But ejaculation is highly overrated, in my opinion."

He stretched closer, yearning for Hank's mouth. Hank caught his cheek and angled his jaw perfectly, just the way Connor liked it. Slow kisses were his favorite—in the early morning when Hank was still half-asleep, or when they fucked and Hank was too lost in pleasure to do much more than groan against his mouth.

"Maybe," said Hank, pressing a small kiss to the corner of Connor's mouth, "it'll feel better once you get your brain hooked up right. Wanna go again?"

"Yes. I don't really have a refractory period."

Hank reached under his thighs and heaved him closer, until he was flat on his back. "Show-off."

"You enjoy it," said Connor. Lips, on his neck. Slight teeth, where a collarbone would be. Warm hand, on his thigh, his cock, his stomach. He sank into the bed and bent his knees, trapping Hank between them.

Hank leaned down, kissing Connor's forehead and the bridge of his nose. He touched Connor lazily, fingers barely skimming over his cock. A small touch. Connor slid his hands over Hank's shoulders, keeping him close.

"More," said Connor. More, more, more. Always. The unit notified him about his erection, overriding any existing logs. Scowling, he deleted and disabled every possible alert from this unit. Completely unnecessary. He had fully functional optical units. "Please."

The quick slap of skin on artificial skin was loud, suddenly harsh over Hank's breathing. He rubbed his thumb over the head, gathering fluid to spread over their skin. His breathing changed. He braced himself over Connor with a palm on the bed, inhaling sharply through his nose. They kissed until he moaned, startling himself with the sound.

Most days, Connor longed for physical contact—needed it, desperately—but no touch compared to recognizing Hank's arousal build. His body temperature increased. He started to sweat around his temple, then the small of his back, and eventually his entire body. His breath hitched in his throat. He dug his teeth into his lower lip and swallowed words. His pulse spiked.

Connor could watch this for hours.

He fumbled with Hank's shirt, trying to undo a single button for a few seconds before he allocated more power to his clumsy hands. There were splotches of color on Hank's skin, pinks and reds spreading down from his neck.

"Is this the first time you've been naked and I'm not?" Hank asked. He leaned his forehead against Connor's, sighing. "It's weird. I like it."

He tended to find Connor more attractive in clothing, particularly any of the shirts he'd purchased back in December. Connor had cataloged all of Hank's physical reactions to his various appearances and could generate statistical probabilities of sexual activities later that night or—rarely—during the day. He had an eighty-seven percent success rate.

"No, it's the tenth," said Connor. He pulled the other nine from his archives, remembering. "You should always dress like this."

Hank glanced down at himself, snorting. He unbuttoned his jeans with a quick flick of his thumb. With Connor's help, he yanked his boxers down. "You wouldn't get a damn thing done."

There was more than enough time in the day to admire Hank's forearms and complete daily tasks, Connor figured. He hooked one leg over Hank's hip and touched his cheek. More contact. More touch. Hank's cock rubbed against his. Connor gripped him, watching Hank jerk into the touch.

How many times had he leaned over Hank like this, kissing and stroking him until he cried out? Fewer nights than the ones spent pinning Hank's hips to the bed, tasting him. Hank could do that for him, now. Touch him. Stroke him. He could come in Hank's mouth. Feel Hank's tongue on him. Twist Hank's hair between his fingers. Feel Hank's thumbs on his hips—

"God," Hank murmured, holding both of their cocks in one hand. He made a noise in the back of his throat, eyes squeezing shut. "Feels like I've been hard since this morning."

"I know," said Connor. His voice was starting to break. He touched Hank's hip, encouraging him to move. "I want to fuck you."

Hank chuckled. He dropped, propping himself up over Connor with his forearm, and buried his face in Connor's neck. "We've got all night, partner."

Mouth on his jaw, his cheek, his lips. Hank's heartbeat thumped, pounding over everything else in Connor's audio inputs. He disappeared into the sound, drowning in it. Hank's hand slid over both of them, damp with sweat and fluids. Connor shifted, following Hank's rhythm, until—

"Fuck," Hank gasped, back arched in a bulky bow. His hips jerked. It sounded like there was a moan trapped in his throat.

Connor stroked him through it all, watching him sigh. There was semen on his hand and his cock and his abdomen, all slowly spilling onto the sheets. Hank's. More of Hank on him, joining the new fingerprints and sweat.

"Hank," Connor tried, his voice broken and halted. He wrapped sticky fingers around his cock.

Better than before. Hank slid two fingers in Connor's mouth, pushing down on his tongue until he sucked. _Much_ better.

"I," said Connor. Three-quarters of his processing power was focused on adjusting his cock, constantly balancing and tweaking data that he still didn't fully comprehend. All he wanted was Hank. "I—"

Hank touched his face, rubbing his thumb over his cheek, and Connor came.

"Holy shit," Hank murmured. He eased himself up and lay down beside Connor, trying to catch his breath. He shifted, angling his arm above Connor's head so he could push his fingers through Connor's hair. "That dick is _calibrated_."

"Yes," said Connor faintly. He gripped himself, squeezing. If this was Hank, the flesh would be too sensitive for touch. He dragged his fingers through the fluids on his stomach and brought his hand to his mouth, tasting himself and Hank. His frame hummed. "I have revised my opinion of ejaculation."

That drew a single, cartoonish, "Ha!" from Hank.

"Thank you," said Connor. He made a half-hearted attempt to clean them both with the sheet—he didn't want to, really—and rolled onto his side. He started tugging at Hank's jeans. "For assisting me."

"Any time," said Hank, kicking his jeans and boxers onto the floor. He sat up long enough to pull his shirt off and lay back down, sighing. "If you still wanna fuck me, I need twenty minutes. Maybe more."

Connor slung his arm over Hank's waist, listening to his heartbeat settle. "Okay."

For a few minutes, there was silence. Hank's eyes were closed. He kept moving his hand slowly through Connor's hair. His stomach growled.

"I'll make you a sandwich after," said Connor. Hank hadn't eaten dinner and he hadn't thought to remind him. They had both been so singularly focused on their trip to Eden Club. "There's half a loaf of rye bread left."

Hank snorted. He tugged on Connor's wrist. "C'mere."

It hadn't been more than three minutes, but that wasn't something he had to say twice. Connor straddled Hank's thighs and leaned down, eager for another kiss.

"Just so you know," said Hank, fitting one hand over Connor's hip and the other on his cheek, "I'm happy with or without the, uh, attachments. You don't have to change to—fit me, or something. I like you just the way you are, Connor."

He said all of this in a clumsy, half-whispered rush in between kisses.

"Thank you," said Connor. He assumed this already, since Hank had displayed similar levels of arousal, but it was a welcome thing to hear, nonetheless. And it clearly mattered to Hank to say this, so it was important. "I like you, too."

Hank's mouth twitched with a hidden smile. He craned his neck towards the bedside table, where they kept the lube and sex toys. "You wanna compliment me all night or did you plan on fucking me?"

Connor lunged for the drawer, followed by Hank's laughter.

* * *

In October, Connor quit the DPD.

"I thought you would've been gone earlier," said Fowler, his eyes on one of the many terminals that streamed constant data. "You talked about this in July."

"I wanted to complete my existing cases," said Connor. He didn't like leaving unfinished work behind. When he offered his hand, Fowler stood and clasped it. "It was a pleasure to work with you, Captain. I learned a lot here. Thank you."

"Sure," said Fowler, gripping his hand tighter. "What's next for you?"

"I plan to get my private detective license by the end of the year," Connor answered. He let go of Fowler's hand and crossed his wrists behind his back. 

"Gonna go live with your friends at Eden Club?"

"No, I'll be staying with Lieutenant Anderson."

"Huh," said Fowler. He sat down and picked up a tablet. "You guys are still fucking."

Perhaps he was joking. Connor certainly hoped he was, because how could he have known? They had always been so careful. Never touching more than usual. Never embracing. They had tried to fool around at work once—in the bathroom, when they had a long shift and not many people were in the station—but Connor was always overly sensitive to sounds and Hank kept wondering out loud what would happen if someone walked in, so they left, unsatisfied.

Connor had already tailored his expression to be calm and plain, so his surprise didn't register on his face. He leaned down, pretending he'd misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

"My wife owes me a dollar," said Fowler, as though Connor hadn't said anything. He glanced back at Connor. "What, you think I made Captain 'cause I look so good behind a desk? I've known Hank a long time. I can read that man like a damn book."

"Captain," said Connor, dimly aware of his own panic, "I—"

"Don't try it," Fowler cut in. He tapped his temple. "You've got a big 'I'm lying' button flashing on your head."

Cursing, Connor covered the flickering LED. Hank kept telling him to remove it. Maybe he would, now that he wasn't working for the city.

Fowler tossed his tablet back onto the desk and leaned back, folding his hands together over his stomach. He drummed his thumbs together. "Relax. Not like I can do anything. And if I could, I wouldn't."

"Really?" Connor lowered his hand and stood at attention again. "You...approve?"

"God, no," said Fowler, snorting. Panic shot through Connor again, but Fowler continued, "He's looking better than he has in years. He's happy with you."

"I'm not the only reason," said Connor. Getting back to work, having a stable schedule, taking Sumo for regular walks—all of that improved Hank's general health and mood. "I'm just helping."

Fowler shrugged. "Well, I appreciate it. He's a good guy."

"Yes," said Connor, pleased to find common ground again. "He is. We're very happy."

He watched Fowler's face twitch. Amusement, maybe.

"Alright," said Fowler. He waved Connor away. "Best of luck to you. Send Hank in, would you?"

Connor searched Fowler's face, trying to find anything, and could not. He inclined his head and left the office. Hank was leaning back in his chair, facing him. He must have been watching the conversation.

"I need to speak with the IT department so they can verify I removed myself from DPD systems," said Connor. Via text message, he added, _He knows._ "I don't know how long that'll take, so don't wait for me. I'll catch a taxi home."

Hank's phone buzzed. Without looking at it, he picked it up, saying, "You sure? I don't mind hanging around—" With a quiet yelp, he nearly dropped his phone but managed to scoop it back up before it hit the floor. "Aw, hell."

"Sorry," said Connor. Hank's neck and ears started to flush. "I still can't lie very well, apparently."

With a sigh, Hank pushed himself up and shoved his phone into his pocket. He patted Connor's shoulder. "It's okay."

"He wants to talk to you." Before Hank could ask, Connor quickly added, "He didn't say why."

Hank bowed his head, rubbing at his temple. "Okay." He started walking towards the office, adding, "If I get fired, you get to be the breadwinner."

Connor doubted that was going to happen. Still, he lingered by Hank's desk, peering into Fowler's office.

Hank was apologetic—nearly shrinking into himself, eyes on the floor—but Fowler took a bottle and two glasses out of a desk drawer. He poured a generous amount into each glass and pointed at the chair, telling Hank to sit down. Hank did. Fowler clinked their glasses together and said something that made Hank chuckle.

 _I'll drive us home_ , Connor told Hank. He left for the IT department.

Fifteen minutes later, Hank replied:

_thanks, partner. love you_


	9. Epilogue

It was December, and it was barely snowing.

Hank wore his usual jacket, instead of a winter coat. It wasn't cold enough, which was a shame. When the temperature dipped below freezing, Connor liked to overclock everything in his hands so he could warm up Hank's neck and cheeks. Today, all Hank needed were the gloves that Connor bought him last year and a thick scarf that he could disappear into when the winds were strong.

Gary Kayes was inside the food truck, wiping his hands on his apron. He'd left Detroit late last year, trying to escape the mayhem that came with Markus's revolution, and returned a couple months ago.

"Still following you around, huh," said Kayes, flicking his eyes towards Connor. 

"Yeah, he's my partner," said Hank. They had variations of this conversation every time they visited Chicken Feed. "The usual. Oh, and a cup of coffee instead of soda."

Kayes turned to the grill. Over his shoulder, he said, "Outta beans. Sorry."

"Water, then. Thanks."

Connor peered inside the food truck, watching Kayes slap a burger on the grill. He could spot seven different health code violations. Not severe enough to get Hank sick, so he wouldn't mention anything. There were other places in the city to get a cheap, greasy burger, but this was Hank's favorite.

A smile. A hand on his shoulder. An embrace.

"What're you smiling about," said Hank, nudging Connor's shoulder.

"I was remembering," said Connor. He had happy memories associated with Chicken Feed, too.

Hank touched his fingers for a few seconds, squeezing.

Once Hank's food was done, they walked over to a table. Connor wiped the surface with his sleeve before Hank put his food down.

"So, Mr. Private Eye," said Hank, tugging off his gloves with his teeth. "Are we meeting with realtors again on Friday or Saturday?"

"Yes," Connor answered. "Sunday, too."

Connor was able to work from home—Hank had suggested it at first, since Connor didn't really need additional physical space for anything—but he had decided it would be easier to meet with clients at a separate address. Having an additional safe location for daily backups was good, too. Carrying unsaved data around in a destructible form made him nervous.

Markus had kindly donated a lump sum, so Connor would be able to afford a decent location and the monthly rent payments. He still hadn't been paid for his work with the DPD and likely wouldn't for quite some time, as Fowler had predicted. With his connections to the android community at Eden Club and everyone he'd met through police work, Connor hoped he would be able to produce a steady income. He didn't want to rely entirely on Hank.

"I don't mind dipping into my savings," said Hank. He dug into his burger, wincing when hot onions spilled out over his fingers. "I mean, I've got more than enough. Not like I spend my paycheck on anything but booze and dog food."

"That's your retirement."

Hank chewed and swallowed. "You can pay me back."

There was a stubborn twist to his mouth. He wouldn't budge, even if Connor argued.

"We can cross that bridge if and when we come to it," said Connor. Hank shrugged and took another bite. "You know, Irene called me again."

"Yeah?"

"I accepted her interview request," said Connor. She was one of the few journalists who continued asking him for interviews or comments on current events. Most of the media were focused on Markus's humanitarian efforts and diplomatic negotiations with various human leaders. Interest in the story of the plastic cop had died down, even in Detroit, but Irene wanted to incorporate him into a piece she was developing about android day to day life. _A one year later kinda thing_ , she called it. "She's interested in my experience with deviancy."

"You should tell her about that fish."

The dwarf gourami. Connor could see it on the floor, flopping desperately. "You remember that?"

Hank snorted. "Come on, I wasn't that drunk."

"Yes, you were."

"Okay, maybe," Hank admitted, pausing to suck french fry salt off his thumb. "Not drunk enough to forget how upset you were. Were you crying?"

"Yes."

"Shit, I've been thinking I dreamed that. I thought only child models could cry."

Connor shook his head. "Any android can."

"That's fucking weird."

"My 'tears' are excess coolant and other fluids that have built up inside my frame. Instead of disposing in my waste tank, they leak out of my optical units."

"Sounds gross."

"Yes, it is. And it's highly inefficient. I don't like it."

Hank made a disgusted sound and took another bite of his burger. "Got any work lined up?"

Michael and Markus had several potential clients for him. Not all could pay with cash, but Connor would help them, anyway. Many of the android communities in Detroit had developed their own economy, generally based around thirium or replacement biocomponents. Having a full stock of those would be good planning for the future.

"Possibly," said Connor. He was itching for something to work on. Not having anything to investigate since October was devastatingly boring. "There's more to life than a job, though." He waited for Hank to swallow his food before he went on, "Fucking you through your mattress, for example."

Somehow, Hank managed to choke on his own spit. He covered his mouth with a napkin, coughing. His eyes were bright.

"You can do whatever you want with me," said Hank, wiping his mouth. "I'm easy."

"Not as easy as me."

"That's true. Not everyone can get off on holding hands."

"It's my special talent."

Hank grinned. He set his burger aside and unscrewed his water bottle, tipping his head back to swallow a mouthful. There was a softness to his features that came with exhaustion—another long day at work. Another day without Connor at his side. It was more difficult for Connor to adjust to this than Hank, who had admitted he went through a "metric shit-ton" of partners in the past couple years.

"You haven't told me about your cases lately," said Connor.

Hank shrugged. "Nothing to tell. They're pretty straightforward."

"Lucky you."

"Yeah," said Hank, picking up a few french fries. "Now that I've said it, I'll get a fucking weird one. I jinxed myself."

A joke. He wasn't that superstitious. Connor watched him eat.

A car drove past them, engine grumbling. It was the only one around for a few blocks. Kayes turned his radio over to the news. The air smelled like beef and potatoes and salt, and Hank, and cold. It was going to snow more tonight, Connor guessed.

Hank crumpled up cardboard and paper. His cheeks were slightly pink from the cold. He hunched his shoulders around his ears, shivering. Connor followed him to the trash can, watching his breath mist in the air.

In the car, the engine whined before it shuddered into life. Hank patted the dashboard and murmured about a garage appointment. Connor turned on the heater.

"Figured we'd go straight home," said Hank. He slung his arm over the seats, rubbing his thumb over Connor's neck. "Watch a movie or something."

"Okay," said Connor. "I love you."

He liked to say this at odd hours of the day, because the words pleased Hank and it was true. He loved Hank. He would always love Hank.

Hank ducked his head, smiling. He flicked on the turn signal and eased onto the road. "Love you, too."

Connor reached over his shoulder and squeezed Hank's fingers. He watched the light from street lamp's pass over the windshield, sending shadows across Hank's face. One year, one month, and eight days ago, he walked into a bar to meet his new partner. Four hundred and three days.

He was looking forward to more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This wasn't really beta'ed, so sorry if there are any glaring mistakes.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://zythepsary.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_zythepsary) if you want to say hello or request additional tags.
> 
> Don't play this game. It's terrible.


End file.
